


Children And Fools Tell The Truth

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Awkward Sexual Situations, Eventual Sappiness, Happy Ending, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Illness, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Mycroft is a Softie, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Sure If There Is Any Plot, Of Course There Is A Happy Ending!, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Poor Mycroft, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sexual Experimentation, Sexual arrangement, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, holmescest, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-09 07:20:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17997395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Mycroft Holmes has been in love with his little brother for ages. Sherlock has never noticed. When it happens, things get awkward, heart-breaking and very sexual... And in the end - fluffy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlock221Bismymuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/gifts).



> Gifted to sherlock221Bismymuse for reasons and because she's an inspiration and a cute little thing :). Sometimes two Holmescest-brains think alike. But this will be a pretty different story after all :)
> 
> And she made a wonderful fanart for this story, to be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026231 Thanks so much, my dear muse! :)
> 
> By the way: was the "Poor Mycroft" tag added for us? :)

“Mycroft!”

Mycroft looked up from his phone and tried not to sigh. “Yes, Paryanna?”

“What does that word mean: ap… appe… apprecnishn?”

“That's not a word I'm afraid.” Why did a not even four-year-old girl have to 'work on her vocabulary' as cousin Massandra had put it? And where was _she_ now?! Probably chatting with some other relative.

Mycroft _hated_ weddings. He hated to be locked up with _people_ , even if they belonged to his own family! At least they could sit outside as the weather was warm and sunny. The drinks were warm, too, though... What a tedious way to spend a Sunday afternoon…

The little girl with the raven-black hair impatiently put a piece of paper under his nose. “There!”

“Ah. Appreciation. It's when you find something… valuable, appealing, you cherish it, are grateful for it, you like it, basically,” he concluded, putting it as simple as possible.

“Ah, I understand! Just like you looked at Sherlock when he sat down.”

Sherlock had been gazing at his phone and had not said a word for about an hour. Now his head snapped up and his green-blue eyes stared at Mycroft with an expression of confusion and disbelief.

 _Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't blush!_ It was hopeless. Mycroft could feel his cheeks glow. “No, not like that,” he slowly said. “That will be best described as 'annoyance'…” His voice hardly trembled. A bit maybe. A lot maybe…

Usually Sherlock would have snorted and made a nasty remark now but he didn’t say anything and continued to stare at him as if he was about to dissect his brain with his eyes. Knowing him, he most certainly could…

Paryanna shook her head. “I know _this_ word. That's not it. You looked at his bum as if you liked it very much.” She giggled and focused on her paper again.

Could it get any worse? Hardly… Was it possible for a hole to open up under his chair and swallow him? Please? Right now? The only comfort was that nobody else was paying attention to their conversation. A very _small_ comfort as _Sherlock_ had heard it after all…

“I… Excuse me. I need to…” _…go somewhere and hit my head against a wall… find a rope to hang myself…_ He more or less ran inside and into the next bathroom, splashing icy water into his face. As if that helped… He should have put it somewhere else… Not that he was in this state now but damn – he _had_ stared at Sherlock's bum and it had made him feel all funny. Not that there was anything funny about wanting his own little brother…

It was disgusting! It was horrible! Wrong! Sick!

But it didn’t help to tell himself that time after time – he was in love with his baby brother; he desired him; he wanted to kiss him and touch him and do the most pleasurable things to him. A little brother who despised him and wouldn’t even relieve himself onto him if he was burning...

And his damn three-and-a-half-year-old _wunderkind_ of a second cousin had not only noticed what Sherlock, the super smart consulting detective, had never got but even innocently exposed it to him! Because as over-intelligent as she was, she was still a little child that had no idea of the consequences of her actions… He didn’t even want to consider the possibility that she might have done it on purpose…

He would have to move to Nairobi. Or anywhere else far, far away… At least it was clear he couldn’t stay here any longer…

But he had left his bloody phone on the table. Oh God… It wasn't locked… If Sherlock got hold of it and saw all the pictures of him he had saved on it… Pictures he had mostly made from rather far away. Like a damn spy or stalker... He both wanted to run out of the house to get into the next cab to the train station and back into the lion's den to fetch his damn phone and run then.

And of course he couldn’t hide in here forever…

He took a deep breath and left the bathroom, feeling as if he was on his way to his execution.

*****

He stood dead when he reached his table. Sherlock's place was empty. And Mycroft's phone was lying on the table, just where he had left it, the display dark.

Slowly he walked over to the table and sat down again. Paryanna was still busy with her paper, scribbling something on it. Of course she could write already.

“Um… Where is Sherlock?” he asked casually and drank a sip of his water. Water! He should have asked for something stronger!

“He had to go. Someone texted him and he said he had to go back to London.”

Probably Greg Lestrade with a case. Or John Watson, informing him about a private client with a fascinating problem. In any way it was a relief.

“He took your phone for a moment,” Paryanna continued in her typical indifferent voice.

“He did what?!”

“Yes. But he put it back and said you wouldn’t mind.”

Very slowly Mycroft reached out for his phone and wiped over the display. And almost dropped it. Sherlock had changed the background picture from Buckingham Palace to his own widely smiling face. And wasn't he even winking?

Mycroft groaned and put it back onto the table upside down. It could have been worse though. Sherlock could have put a picture of his bloody _bottom_ there…

“Are you sick?” Somehow she sounded hopeful.

“No,” he answered darkly. “Listen… Um… Could you just not mention our earlier conversation and… forget what… you think you might have seen?”

“About you looking at…”

“Yes!”

She winced and he gave her a reassuring smile that probably rather looked like a pretty dangerous grimace. She stared at him, swallowed, shrugged, and said, “Okay.”

Mycroft rubbed his face. At least one thing he might not have to be worried about. Or was he crazy to believe a little girl he hardly knew?

“So it's a favour, yes?”

He bit his lip. “Yes. If you could be so kind.”

“Sure… I saw this doll, Mycroft.”

“Pardon?”

“Mummy said it was too expensive and I can't have it right now.”

He stared at the little horror in the pink dress with narrowed eyes, disbelieving his ears and wondering why. She was a _Holmes_ … “Are you _blackmailing_ me?!” he hissed nonetheless.

She looked at him with her huge blue eyes. “What does that word mean? What was it? Black…”

“Never mind. So you are telling me about this doll because…?”

“I'll do you a favour. So maybe you could do me one, too?”

So little and so cunning already… Sherlock would be so pleased… But… “Sherlock told you to suggest that, right?”

She stared at him and then she shrugged and nodded. “Yes.”

He would _kill_ him… Or both of them… No. He couldn’t kill his brother whom he loved so much and damn, he couldn’t kill a little girl, either… But damn, they both deserved it… “Fine, show me what you want and I'll buy it,” he said through gritted teeth, grabbing his phone.

“Great!” She beamed at him.

Yes. This was really a _great_ day…


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes home from the wedding. He is being expected already by someone who has a rather unexpected suggestion...

When Mycroft was standing in front of his house, he closed his eyes for a moment. He was completely sure he had switched on the alarm before he had left the house. Now it was off.

No signs of a break-in. Of course not. This particular intruder had nicked a key to this door years ago.

Mycroft had known that and not exchanged the lock. He had deep inside hoped Sherlock would make use of his key to… what, come along and confess his love for him? Pathetically, yes…

He let himself in and shut the door behind him. No noise was audible but he could feel he wasn’t alone. He hung up his light summer coat and slowly walked towards the living room.

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, the inevitable phone in his hands. He looked up when Mycroft entered. “Ah, good that you're finally coming. I'm doing a literature game here and I'm missing a word…”

“What is it,” Mycroft spat out. “Incest? Immorality? Stupidity?”

Sherlock grinned. “I think the last one fits best.” He put the phone onto the table. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

Mycroft let himself drop into his chair. “Ask?! For what? Touching your…” He broke off.

“My delectable bum, yes. Or my cock, if you prefer this. Or both.”

Mycroft closed his eyes in terror. “So you could have mocked me forever? Calling me a pervert?” he rasped out.

Sherlock huffed. “As if. Do you know me as someone who follows by the rules? You're insulting me, brother!”

“But… You don't do such things! And why on earth would you do them with _me_ of all people all at once?!”

“I had a lot of time to think since Precocious Paryanna dropped this unexpected bomb,” Sherlock said calmly. “Everybody does it. I'm thirty-six and a bloody virgin. It might be about time to make some experiences and see what all the fuss is about. John tells me all the time to get someone because he's so sure I'm missing out if I don't _do_ it with anyone. He thinks I'm interested in Irene Adler though.” He grimaced.

Mycroft sighed again. “ _Dead_ Irene Adler?”

“Oops.”

“Never mind. I don't even want to know how you did that… Doesn't matter.” Still it hurt him to think that Sherlock had obviously saved her.

“Not, it really doesn't. She texts me a few times a year, I don't reply. That's it.”

Mycroft nodded. “That's… good to know…” Not that it mattered but…

“So. I'm not interested in Irene because I'm not interested in women,” Sherlock obviously found it necessary to explain himself.

“Oh. What about… Miss Hooper? You did sound rather convincing when you…”

Sherlock shut him up with an imperious wave of his hand. “Forget it! You were there – she forced me to say it first. She's a friend, nothing else.”

Mycroft nodded. “I see. Well, there are plenty of men who would love to…”

“I don't give a damn for some goldfish who wouldn’t understand a word I'm saying.”

“Well… It's not actually about _talking_ though…”

Sherlock snorted. “Seriously? You want me to waste my time with doing sexual... _stuff_ with people I couldn’t even talk to? Do _you_ use to do that?”

“No, in fact I do not. I did… do things with men until a couple of years ago. Not many and not often but… Anyway… I'm not interested in engaging with anyone.”

Sherlock leaned forward. “That's not quite true though…”

“All right! I don't want to date anyone because they are all stupid and get on my nerves and because I just want to have sex with _you_!” he blurted as this cat was definitely out of the bag, wasn't it? _'Because I_ love _you'_ was what he did _not_ say.

Sherlock smiled. “See. It wasn't that difficult.” He stood up. “Well then. Bedroom?”

“What?!”

“You might want to take a shower first. I already did.”

Mycroft caught himself opening and closing his mouth like a damn fish. “You suggest we should simply go up there and…”

“…have sex, yes. What's the problem? You very obviously leer for my plush bum and I can get it over with, getting rid of this damn virginity with someone who isn’t an idiot. It's a win-win-situation.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. _'Get it over with.' 'Win-win-situation'. How romantic…_

Sherlock sighed impatiently, misinterpreting his reaction. “I won't tell anyone. I bet you search for bugs in this house every day. It's our little secret. Consider yourself my teacher. You taught me to do deductions and how to ride a bicycle and all that and now you can teach me whatever you think I should know about sex.”

Mycroft had no idea how to respond to this. It was not really what he had imagined, was it? This was just sex. No feelings on Sherlock's side. Just making some experiences… Experiments, basically. Being taught how to... No whispered words of love, no cuddling, no sentiment. But that was exactly what he had always preached, wasn’t it?

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock…_

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side…_ Sherlock had said this to Adler but he had just repeated what Mycroft had said to him years before.

How funny that he had told Sherlock such stuff to just not show him how much he was feeling for him… How much the _Iceman_ in fact craved for being held and petted… By Sherlock only, that is.

In Sherrinford he had given his deep feelings away under the enormous pressure of this seemingly hopeless situation but Sherlock hadn't even noticed them as he could be very thick regarding other people's emotions, no matter how smart he was otherwise. Without this nosy little girl he would still not have a clue…

But then… It was already a lot more than he had ever expected. Being allowed to touch him. Make love to him. Kiss him if Sherlock would let him… It would hurt to keep it on such a loveless level but he would be able to cope with it as it was the only way to at least get this…

“All right,” he said and got up. “If you're sure…”

“The goldfish do it all the time. How hard can it be?”

 _Oh Sherlock…_ He really didn’t understand sentiment, still not, no matter what Mrs Hudson seemed to think about him, stabbing envelopes and being impulsive. In the end everything was calculable for him, with the exception of Eurus maybe. Everything was just an experiment. Sentiment was something for the goldfish. Perhaps he would find out that it wasn’t that easy… And Mycroft could only hope he wouldn't break his heart in the process. But in all probability exactly that would happen and Sherlock would probably not even notice it or even worse – not care...

He took a deep breath and led the way upstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys begin their give-Sherlock-sexual-experiences-task.

When Mycroft came out of the en suite bathroom, wearing nothing but his robe, Sherlock was sitting on the bed – completely naked, looking at his phone like a man without a worry in the world. His legs were crossed in a way that could only be described as obscene, exposing his genitals to him shamelessly. Mycroft had not seen him naked since he'd been a little boy and he tried not to stare at round, pale-pink, hairless balls and a long, limp cock in the same colour, with neatly trimmed black pubic hair above it. Somehow Sherlock looked simultaneously completely innocent, even touching in his disregard for this wanton position, and incredibly desirable.

Baby brother looked up from his display when he noticed his presence. “Ah. Why did you bother with the robe?”

“It was cold,” Mycroft mumbled not quite truthfully. Did he really have to get naked in the presence of physical perfection? Sherlock was all long, shaped arms, muscular thighs and calves, sculpted stomach and hairless glory, not to mention thick black curls, sapphire eyes, pouty lips and cheekbones like marble.

Whereas _he_ … He suppressed a sigh and a curse about the unfairness of genetics. They were as closely related as possible and looked as if they didn’t even belong to the same species…

“Why are you standing there like a broom?” Sherlock made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Get rid of this camp robe and come to bed. I can't stay here all night, you know? John will wonder…”

This was utter madness. He should tell Sherlock to leave and forget this insane idea. Nothing good could come out of it. Sherlock would stomp on his feelings like he'd always done and then go home and live his life with John Watson and his child as if nothing had happened… And what about _him_?

Sherlock sighed and got up from the bed, putting his phone onto the nightstand. He approached Mycroft with two long steps and tore at his robe. Mycroft did nothing to hinder him and let himself be stripped of his last barrier.

Sherlock eyed him mercilessly. “Hm. You've lost weight. At least five pounds since Sherrinford. And God, you're hairy. Strange… And… Oh…” His gaze had finally reached Mycroft's crotch. “Damn, brother! Where have you hidden _this_ before?”

“In my suits and pants,” Mycroft said dryly, and Sherlock chuckled.

Then he slapped Mycroft's – hairy – shoulder. “Let's get on with it. What's lesson number one?”

There was no way out of this anymore. Even if he had wanted to. Sherlock would think he was a coward, an uptight pedant.

And dammit – he didn’t _want_ to back away.

He straightened his back. “Touching, I think.”

“My dick?”

 _Not just that… Let me kiss and touch you all over and show you how much I crave for you…_ “Yes, Sherlock. Your dick…”

*****

Perhaps a part of him had hoped that Sherlock was a man without sexual urges and reactions, a full-on asexual. Then this weird, forbidden and devastating experiment would have been over before it really had begun. But as soon as he very carefully stroked over his brother's cock, it jumped to attention very impressively, growing under his fingertips faster than he had ever seen that before.

"Oh," Sherlock said unintelligently. "That feels..."

_...horrible? Gruesome? Like something he never wanted to feel again?_

"...awesome. Can you... do it a little harder?"

Mycroft swallowed and then he wrapped his long fingers around the hot, hard flesh, stroking up and down firmly, and Sherlock moaned in his deep voice in a way that put an end to Mycroft's little remaining rest of self-control, making his own so far only slightly plump cock stand up proudly as well.

Sherlock's eyes darted at it, then back to Mycroft's hand that was stroking him, then back to Mycroft's throbbing cock, and then he reached out and grabbed it, mirroring Mycroft's actions.

Mycroft had not expected this, God knew why; Sherlock had wanted him naked too after all. But Sherlock spending him pleasure? That was most unprecedented. But of course it was welcome and it felt bloody great. He groaned and shuddered and his free hand clutched Sherlock shoulder.

His brother didn't even seem to notice, still looking back and forth, apparently mesmerised, between their members and hands and then he winced and cried out and hot, thick fluid was pulsing over Mycroft's hand, making him follow only a moment later.

It had not even lasted four minutes and yet Mycroft knew it had turned his world upside down. Their relationship would never be the same again. Well – it hadn't been that pleasant but now it had become a hell hole of complications.

And Sherlock was completely oblivious to it. "Damn, that was good!" He lifted his hand and licked at Mycroft's semen that was dripping off of it, and Mycroft almost passed out at the sight. "Hm! Interesting! Would you mind if I saved it and examined it at home?"

"Exa... What? There is a child in your flat!"

Sherlock snorted, getting up from the bed. "I didn't plan to put it under Rosie's nose. Or John's... I'll just tell him it's mine if he catches me.” Now that was a conversation Mycroft really wouldn’t want to hear… “Do you have a glass somewhere?" Sherlock asked, holding his hand in a strange angle to not let any of the precious essence drop onto the floor…

"Um... There must be one in the bathroom."

"Excellent. You'll get it back."

"Never mind," Mycroft mumbled, watching him leave. And then he looked at his own soiled fingers – and quickly licked at them. _Sherlock's_ sperm. His _baby brother's seed_. Sweet and bitter and weird and infatuating…

How had this happened? How could he have done that – having sex, albeit very quick and rather harmless one, with his own brother?

Ah, yes. Because Sherlock had wanted it and he would always do what Sherlock wanted...

And because he loved him...

But perhaps this was it already. Perhaps Sherlock had already enough of his experimenting. Even though technically he was still a virgin...

Sherlock came back with a small glass that obviously contained his sperm, clean fingers and some tissues. "Here."

"Thanks..." Mycroft wiped his hands off. “By the way – thanks for teaching our little cousin how to blackmail people…” He had almost forgotten about it but he couldn’t let Sherlock get away with that so easily. “I thought you _hated_ blackmailers…” He wouldn’t forget about Magnussen. Ever. Even though he was sure Sherlock didn’t waste a thought on having shot the man anymore.

Sherlock grinned. “Ah, just told her if you ask her for a favour, she should do the same. After all we wouldn’t find it very funny if she told anyone how you'd ogled my arse.”

“I did not…” He broke off. In fact he had and there was really no point in denying it anymore, at least not towards Sherlock… “Still!”

“Ah, you can afford a bloody doll.”

“The _bloody doll_ will cost me 200 pounds!” He'd had no idea that dolls with stupid faces and the ability to pee water (who wanted to see this anyway?!) were so expensive these days…

Sherlock snorted. “You won't even notice that. I bet one of your fancy shirts costs more than that.” During their bickering he had grabbed his clothes and dressed. He stored his phone in his jacket pocket and Mycroft was prepared for seeing him leave with a mocking wave of his hand. Instead Sherlock looked into his eyes. "So – tomorrow phase two then?"

"Um... Oh... Well…" _Very eloquent…_

"What will it be? Sucking each other off?"

Mycroft's hands were cramping into the duvet. "That... might be... reasonable." _Really?_ Anything _about_ this _is reasonable???_

"Fine. I'll be here at eight, text me if you can't make it here until then." And with this Sherlock was gone, casually carrying his embarrassing souvenir, and Mycroft stared at the open door he had disappeared through.

This was so absolutely and utterly wrong, shameful and horrible.

And he couldn't wait for the next evening.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lesson number 2 for Sherlock...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a rather long chapter for the weekend!

When Mycroft was sitting on the backseat of his car that evening, he mused that it was actually a miracle that he had managed to get through that day without messing up everything he had taken care of. But perhaps he had and hadn't even noticed… And somehow it didn’t even really matter…

He had caught himself sitting in his chair as if he'd suffered a stroke many times. He had stopped talking in the middle of a meeting with the PM, thinking of Sherlock's face when he had pulsed over his hand. He had not even yelled at someone who had made a rather fatal mistake. He really had not been himself all day…

And he would never be again, would he? One couldn't cross that line and plan to do it as often as one would be allowed to, get a part of what one had longed for for such a long time without consequences. This Iceman had not melted – he had been burnt. Burnt by his oblivious little brother who had, for all his life, seen him as a provider of support and money, who had been relying on him without even really noticing it, let alone cherishing it, and now he was seeing him as a provider of… sex of all things. Sherlock always took and took, at least when it came to Mycroft and he had never told him to stop. Oh, he had told him many things – _stop taking drugs, grow up, leave Irene Adler alone, put that gun down, shoot_ me _, not John,_ but he had never told him to stop taking from him.

Sherlock had never listened anyway. He had always done what he had wanted to do. And Mycroft had always stepped in when he'd needed him. Without ever asking for anything in return but Sherlock's respect and, as much as he had pretended to despise it, his affection. He had not got anything of that. And yesterday Sherlock had finally given something back, and the most unlikely thing of all – a sexual favour. And he was about to do it again – Mycroft could still hear him ask, _'Sucking each other off?'_

And God he knew he should not let him do that. Or do it to him. Deep inside he knew his heart would inevitably get hurt tremendously if they went on doing this. The desire for Sherlock's love would burn it and burst it from inside. But he longed for getting burnt from the outside – by Sherlock's touching or sucking or whatever he was willing to do. He would savour all these experiences and save them in his mind palace forever.

Perhaps, no, _certainly_ , it was wrong, perhaps it was even abusive – even though Sherlock had been the one suggesting or rather: demanding it. Probably he would pay for it. But he would still do it because he was the Iceman for everybody but he was an Iceman with a blazing core for his incorrigible baby brother and he wouldn’t miss out on an opportunity to get so close to him, at least physically.

He only had to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t suffer a single scratch. But he wouldn’t, after all. It didn’t mean anything to him. _Mycroft_ didn’t mean anything to him. And that was fine, it really was. It was exactly how it had always been.

“Sir, we've arrived.”

“Thank you, Martin.” Mycroft got out of the car and bid his driver good night. It was seven-thirty. Time enough to shower and shave and steel himself for being Sherlock's guide and teacher, like he had always been.

*****

Sherlock was in time. This fact alone was remarkable enough. Mycroft couldn’t remember that his brother had _ever not_ been late when they'd had any kind of appointment, whether it was regarding cases or family matters. He had even been way too late for the wedding that had started this… affair, for a lack of a better expression.

He even rang the doorbell two minutes before eight!

Mycroft had been finished getting prepared for this evening for ten minutes. He had showered with boiling hot water and mercilessly scrubbed parts of himself that didn’t react that well to being scrubbed. He had shaved more thoroughly than usual and used his most expensive eau de cologne – very sparely so Sherlock wouldn’t be repulsed by an overload of smell, as he of course had also applied deodorant. He had considered shaving his torso but Sherlock had already seen his hirsute self already so it would have appeared silly perhaps. And Sherlock had not reacted as if he'd bothered that much. But he had shaved his balls and cut his pubic hair very short so Sherlock wouldn’t get any hairs into his mouth if he really… It was still hard to imagine his brother would seriously do that…

Mycroft took a deep breath and opened up. He was wearing plain black trousers and a light-blue shirt that worked nicely with his eye colour. It was silly of course. As if Sherlock cared!

The detective, stunning as always in a tight black suit with a green shirt, nodded at him and slipped inside. When Mycroft had locked the door and turned around, he could see Sherlock disappearing upstairs already. Straight to the bedroom, obviously.

Mycroft had laid the living room table with glasses and a few snacks. And he wondered why he had bothered… Sherlock didn’t exactly love food and this was _not a_ _date_.

Straightening his back, he followed Sherlock upstairs and into his bedroom. The sight didn’t surprise him in the least. Sherlock was, like yesterday, sitting on the bed, already naked. He must have undressed in record time. Mycroft looked at the heap of clothes on the chair next to the bed. The shirt. The socks. The trousers. No underwear… No time, obviously…

Sherlock wasn’t staring at his phone this time. Instead he was gazing at him. Not impatiently, surprisingly enough. He did look a tiny bit nervous, in fact.

“Listen, Sherlock. We don't have to do that, or better, _you_ don't have to do anything. Obviously you do want me to do it for you but…”

Sherlock sighed, any hint of anxiety disappearing from his face. “Just undress, brother. We've got an hour before John comes back.”

“Are you obliged to account for leaving your flat towards him?” This had come out way too resentful. Not surprising though.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But it wouldn’t do to make him get suspicious, would it? Usually I do rather spend my evenings at home.”

“I see.” At home. With John Watson, Mr Abusive. The man who had beaten Sherlock up at least twice. And Sherlock had let him get away with it. Because he loved him so dearly, his doctor.

Mycroft had never understood it. But John Watson could be glad about Sherlock's loyalty towards him; otherwise Mycroft would have had a nice talk with him. Or something else…

Sherlock glowered at him, then he huffed and jumped off the bed. The next moment Mycroft was undressed as fiercely as the day before. “Why did you bother with clothes! I can be glad you're not wearing these strange garters, too…”

Yes, why _had_ he dressed up again? Because he wanted to look attractive for his brother? Really? Or because he would have felt like a client waiting for an escort boy if he'd only been wearing a robe? And where had this comparison had come from now? He wasn’t paying for sex! He had never done that. _You do pay for it. Just not with money…_ Mycroft pushed this thought aside and stepped back to take care of his trousers and socks himself.

Sherlock huffed again and returned to the bed, scrutinising him. Mycroft swore to himself that he would use his treadmill more often from now on… Not that Sherlock would have looked appalled but he couldn’t really like what he was seeing…

When he was naked and had neatly folded and stored his clothes, ignoring the sighs behind his back, he turned and saw that Sherlock had lain back into the pillows, his legs bent and spread, exposing his assets to him, and he got hard immediately.

“Well, brother mine,” Sherlock said mockingly, “I remember you said something about middle age. Seems you're coping pretty well with it…”

 _Only because it's you…_ “I'm not dead yet, Sherlock.” He winced. How close had he really been to dying in Sherrinford? They had never spoken about it. And he definitely didn’t want to do it anymore, let alone now.

He sat down on the bed and shuffled upwards until his face was close to Sherlock's crotch. He could see his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed. Not _that_ cool after all, his little brother. “Well then,” he said. “Lesson number two, if you're ready?”

He would have loved to not do it like this. To have some… foreplay, some tenderness, some building up, showing Sherlock that this shouldn’t be getting straight to the point, but that was what Sherlock was about, wasn't it? Not wasting time, not dancing around any matter, just exploration and trial and error and science and blatant honesty – or cunning manipulation, if required, but it wasn’t with Mycroft after all. Sherlock knew he could have anything from him…

Sherlock nodded. His eyes looked dark as his pupils were blown wide. For once he didn’t seem to be up to a snarky remark. His cock was half-hard already, his small pink nipples erect, his upper body flushed like his cheeks. It was a sight Mycroft would never forget. Sherlock might do this for science and experimenting but he was seriously excited and it made Mycroft's body and heart tingle that he was the reason for it, as impersonal as Sherlock was keeping this affair.

He wrapped his fingers around his brother's dick again, and then he bent down and closed his lips around the pink head and gently sucked at it and Sherlock's deep moaning echoed from the walls while Mycroft's taste buds were exploding in the same measures as his own arousal.

*****

Even if he hadn’t been capable of storing memories in his mind palace, just like Sherlock was, Mycroft was sure he wouldn't have forgotten a single second of this encounter. Sherlock slumped into the pillows, his entire body trembling, his hands fisting the duvet, his breath loud and unsteady, his legs twitching whenever Mycroft's mouth took him in completely. The steady appearance of little pearls of fluid, dribbling onto Mycroft's tongue while he was working him over as if he'd never done anything else. He had done this a few times in his early twenties and never again after. And he had never enjoyed it very much. Until now.

His long fingers were focused on Sherlock's balls, not squeezing them, just gently tickling them, while he was letting him glide in and out of his mouth in a steady and increasingly comfortable rhythm. It was such a selfless act of spending pleasure, he thought – no wonder he had never liked to do it for anyone who didn’t matter to him. And none of his few encounters had.

Feeling Sherlock responding to his ministrations filled him with pride and gratitude to be allowed and able to do this. This was wrong in the eyes of society and the law and he didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if anyone they knew found out about it but he was absolutely convinced he wasn't harming Sherlock with it. His brother had given up control in a way he had never done before as Mycroft was sure and it seemed to both calm him down and tremendously excite him. He was at Mycroft's mercy but that was fine – he would always have it. And more than anything his reaction, his _submission_ to this act showed an unexpected and touching amount of _trust_ for Mycroft and that was something Mycroft would not save in his mind palace but his heart.

“Please,” Sherlock stammered now, his right hand – apparently unconsciously – reaching out to grab Mycroft's shoulder quite painfully, and Mycroft looked at him, going cross-eyed for probably the first time in his life, and increased his efforts, closing his fingers around the base of Sherlock's silky cock and sucking with more force, and then Sherlock made a high-pitched voice and flooded his mouth with his hot release, making Mycroft gag, bringing tears to his eyes, but he swallowed it all and cleaned the twitching penis with his tongue while Sherlock was shuddering through his climax, and then he clumsily patted his thigh to calm him down, watching his little brother get totally boneless on his bed, closing his eyes, his features more relaxed than Mycroft had seen them since Sherlock had become a man.

He lay next to him, not nearly as close as he would have wanted to, and wondered if Sherlock would now fall asleep or just leave or…

Sherlock sat up. “That was… amazing… Thank you.”

When had Sherlock thanked him the last time? For anything? Ever? And what was he supposed to say to this? _'It was my pleasure'?_ Which would have been absolutely true? _'I'm just fulfilling your wish'_ , which would have sounded awful? He settled for, “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

Sherlock nodded. “I did. As you probably noticed. My turn now.”

“You really don't have to…”

“I know. Want to. But first…”

And then he quickly closed the distance between them and pressed his mouth on Mycroft's, invading it with his tongue when the older man gasped in surprise. He had longed for this. Kissing. Another dimension of intimacy. Could Sherlock…?

He had just started to seriously kiss him back when Sherlock retreated. “Hm. The taste is even weirder mixed with your saliva.”

Mycroft's shoulders sagged. Of course… This hadn't really been a _kiss_ – it had been collection of data. “Well…” What was he supposed to say to that?

“Did you find it pleasant to do that?”

“Um. Yes.” He had never done it before. To the end. The sheer thought of doing this for the very few other men he had given head to would have made him want to throw up. But this was _Sherlock_. With Sherlock he had loved it. Of course he had…

He winced when his semi-erect cock was rather roughly grabbed by long, soft violinist's fingers and stroked to full hardness within the blink of an eye. And then Sherlock plunged his face into his crotch and a moment later his sensitive flesh was engulfed by warm wetness and a hint of sharp teeth and he groaned and fell back into the pillows with closed eyes, his groin on fire, his pulse racing and his entire self at Sherlock's mercy but that was nothing new, was it? Sherlock was holding his heart in his hands and he had never realised or cared. What was his cock compared to this?

*****

It was over in about two minutes that somehow seemed to stretch out forever. The feeling of warmth and softness and a tongue probingly licking at the oversensitive underside of his knob. The sight, when he was finally able to open his eyes again – full lips, now covering the teeth, moving up and down on him, cheekbones sticking out like blades, blue-green eyes trying to read his reactions, blinking rapidly at the necessity of going cross-eyed.

Mycroft would always remember this – this first and probably only time Sherlock truly worshipped him, at least a – not so – small part of him and only for his own purpose but still… What he did was for himself, collecting data, but it was spending Mycroft pleasure. And how pleasurable it was…

He was far beyond thinking this was wrong now. Why should they care what others would think about it? They would never know. It felt as if they were existing in a bubble now, another world far away from the actual world they lived in, a world without Mycroft's power and duties, without Sherlock's fame and adventures, his nosy friends and all these obligations and expectations and _'can you help me with this case?'_ and _'we need you to take care of this, Mr Holmes'_ and _'will you ever get married, Myc?'_ and _'it's your fault my wife was killed'._

Here and now they were the Holmes brothers, debauching in forbidden pleasures, both with their own reasons and agendas and far from being lovers but still entangled in something spectacularly pleasant.

And even though it hurt him that they weren't lovers, Mycroft felt that he couldn’t even imagine stopping this again. But of course Sherlock would do that as soon as he had got out everything of this arrangement that he had been looking for. It would be so painful but right now it was just heaven.

“I'm coming, Sherlock, stop it,” he warned him but Sherlock managed to snort around his cock as he should have expected it, and then he bucked up and emptied himself into Sherlock's mouth and he felt a strange pang of sympathy when his brother gagged and grimaced, but Sherlock wouldn’t have been Sherlock if he had stopped his efforts, instead he swallowed the seed just as Mycroft had done for him and he even seemed to chew on it and roll it around in his mouth for a moment, certainly memorising the taste and the texture. Always the scientist…

Mycroft collapsed into the pillows when he had spent completely. “Thank you, little brother. That was an impressive first time.” Had that sounded condescending?

But Sherlock just grinned. “I'm a fast learner.” He got up and started to dress. “So. What's next?”

“Um…” Mycroft wasn't quite sure how to respond to this. His own sexual experiences were limited enough. The obvious choice would have been anal intercourse. But it would have also been the last one then, wouldn’t it? But how to prolong it? He didn’t have any kinks. And he wouldn’t want to do anything… nasty with Sherlock… And what should that be? Cross-dressing together like Uncle Rudy? Asking Sherlock to give him what they called a 'golden shower'? Only over his dead body. Quite literally… But there was at least one step he could suggest before. “Backside worshipping,” he said rather vaguely.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Licking my arse, you mean?”

“Basically yes.” The thought alone made him feel dizzy. Sherlock's wonderful, round, plush backside, the object of so many fantasies, the reason why this had even started after all… Because a little girl had caught him looking at it… _God…_

“Did you do that very often?” Sherlock asked and somehow he sounded as if he didn’t want to hear a positive answer. Probably that was just Mycroft's imagination though.

“Not once. I mean… A bit… But not… There…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Can you put it in any more confusing words?”

“I did… put my lips onto a bottom or two but I never… licked it… there…” He just _couldn’t_ say it…

Thankfully Sherlock showed at least some mercy and didn’t tell him to speak clearer. “But you would do it?”

“Yes.” _Please don't ask why…_

And Sherlock didn’t. “Tomorrow, same time?”

“Um… Yes.” At this rate they would only meet like this two more evenings then. Three if they split the anal intercourse in two parts – Sherlock bottoming and topping on two different occasions… This just couldn’t be over so soon…

“Fine.”

“Will you…” Mycroft broke off, blushing. Of course Sherlock would not.

“What, lick your arsehole?”

When had his little brother, the notorious virgin who had visited the best private school and Oxford, started to speak so crudely? Mycroft had never heard him do that before. It was disturbing. And damn, it was sexy. “Yes, but forget it, you…”

“Of course I will. You'll show me how and then I'll do it.” Sherlock seemed to be a bit offended that Mycroft had expected him to back away from this challenge that Mycroft himself was willing to take. What was some sibling rivalry thrown into this already insane mix?

“Very well but if you change your mind…”

“Not going to happen. Good night.”

Mycroft had not even got his full hour… “Good night, little brother,” he said, sounding a little sad but still very fond to his own ears.

Sherlock turned and looked at him, and a hint of _confusion? curiosity? insecurity?_ _affection?_ showed on his face for a moment. But then he just nodded and left, taking out his phone.

Mycroft was lying awake for a long time this night. He hadn't even bothered to clean up the table downstairs or brush his teeth, not wanting to lose the taste of Sherlock's seed – and of the kiss that hadn't really been a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be mad at Sherlock (or me!). Things will get nicer, I swear!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does Sherlock think about this arrangement? Plus: a lecture in rimming :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for Sherlock's POV. I guess some of you hate this story because Sherlock is so cold. But we know him - deep inside he is far from that! :)  
> Oh, and yes, the other characters play very minor parts here. This story is a total Sherlock/Mycroft show and I'm keeping the others as unimportant as possible, because that's what they are for me :)

“Hi, Sherlock!”

Sherlock stared at his visitor. “Hi.”

Molly smiled a bit wryly, stepping from one foot to the other in the doorframe. “Um, I'm here to take Rosie until tomorrow morning. John has to work and…”

“Oh, yes, he said. Come in.” Sherlock turned and went back into the living room, throwing himself into his chair.

“How are you?” Molly asked, sitting down in John's chair and playing with her ponytail.

“John will come any moment. Hm? Oh, fine, fine.” Sherlock took his phone. He needed to do some research.

“I… haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“Hm? Oh, well, Graham didn’t have any cases that required going to the morgue.” The Met had only had insultingly boring cases lately. Most of them he had solved from Baker Street! Without even having to get up from his chair!

“Graham?”

“Hm? Lestrade!”

“Oh. _Greg_ …”

“Whatever.” Sherlock wiped over the display. He should focus on the case of the lost lorries. He was paid rather well for it… But he had other things to do. And finding stolen lorries was boring… His latest task was not. Not at all. Just thinking of it made him feel… giddy… and funny at places he had never considered to be funny. And they weren’t. Being touched there by Mycroft's incredibly long, elegant fingers or being sucked and licked felt funny though. And great. And like something he always wanted to feel now. He was all fidgety and wired just thinking of the evening… Wait… There was a link…

“Um… No experiments either?”

“Oooh… Sorry?”

“What are you looking at?” Molly stood up and proceeded to join him and he hastily closed his browser before she could see the illustrated guide to perfect rimming.

“Nothing. How _are_ you?” He gave her a very false smile to distract her from the fact that his trousers had suddenly become a bit too tight. Not because of looking at stranger's bums. But because of thinking of a particular bum he would not just _see_ tonight… A nice, round, firm bum. With a few freckles on it… He would have to memorise it all – the texture, the solidity, the taste…

“Um, good. And you?”

“Fine. Very.”

For a moment there was an awkward silence. Like always when he'd met her since that blasted phone call. He knew John had explained the situation to her but… At least his erection had wilted again…

“Are you still visiting your sister?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not lately.” He hadn't gone to Sherrinford for at least three weeks. For a couple of weeks after this horrible night he had visited her regularly but then he'd got some really demanding cases and she never spoke to him anyway and he had more or less forgotten about her lately… He wasn't a very good big brother… Or _little_ brother… Although…  He tried not to think of Mycroft and his arse anymore, knowing his so-long-neglected-but-now-fully-awake cock would jump to attention again at once.

To his relief he heard a key in the downstairs door. “Ah! John and Rosie are coming.”

Molly nodded and shifted on her chair. “Perhaps you could come with us, Rosie and me? Eating ice cream and…”

“Oh, no, thanks. I'm busy. Lorries. Need to find some lorries.”

John came into the living room, carrying Rosie and a bag. “Hi Molly. Any news on this case?” he turned to Sherlock. “Thought you'd given up on it.”

“I never give up,” Sherlock said, sounding a tad theatrical to his own ears. “I _will_ find them.” _Sooner or later. Maybe. If I bother._

“Would be great. They keep calling me because you never answer your phone.”

Sherlock snorted. “I'll do it my own time!”

“Yeah, sure… So, Molly, we had a rather late lunch and now…”

Sherlock hastened out of the living room. He had to be alone and investigate things. Things that had nothing to do with lorries whatsoever…

*****

Mycroft hadn't bothered with making dinner this evening, not wanting to waste it again. He had eaten in the kitchen after returning from work before he had hastened into the bathroom to take a very hot bath and brush his teeth squeaky clean.

This wasn’t _a date_. He ought to not forget this. Sherlock wasn’t interested in eating with him, let alone talking to him. He would come to… _come_ and nothing else.

And it was fine, it really was. They were the Holmes brothers. They didn’t do sentiment. Sentiment was for…

He sighed when his inner voice changed into an _inner face_ that rolled its eyes and shook its head at him. _Of course_ he did have emotions. _Of course_ he still wanted this to be more. He wanted to be allowed to kiss and pet his brother, to hold his wonderful long-fingered hands between his own. He wanted to quietly chat with him and ask him about his day. He wanted to stroke his hair and his body and not just his penis or his behind…

But that was all he'd ever get, and he was feeling dizzy at the thought that he should be allowed to explore his brother sexually even more tonight. He could still feel the weight and the silkiness of his cock in his mouth and he unconsciously licked his lips when he recalled how Sherlock had pulsed down his throat. And he couldn’t wait for more…

Five minutes before eight the doorbell rang. Sherlock was even earlier than the day before! Mycroft had not bothered with dressing up this time, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate it.

But his brother looked marvellous in his tight purple shirt and the black jeans he was wearing tonight. He scratched his head when he slipped into the house and he seemed to be vibrating with anticipation.

It was still very hard to believe for Mycroft that Sherlock had chosen him of all people he could have picked for making sexual experiences. That Sherlock didn’t bother about the incest taboo was not that surprising but he could have had _anyone_. And despite his wish this could be a bit more… intimate he was feeling blessed that Sherlock trusted him with this. He would play along and physically enjoy it and then retreat into the shadows when Sherlock was through with him and continue to watch over him like he'd always done. What was some more heartbreak to suffer from?

Sherlock had not said a word after the initial 'hello' and Mycroft watched him hurrying upstairs and silently followed him.

“What's that?” Sherlock asked when he entered the bedroom, gesturing at the nightstand.

“Um, I bought some lubrication. We'll need it anyway if you want to have… real intercourse and it might be helpful to… use our fingers tonight.”

“Ah. It's flavoured.” He didn’t seem to be exactly happy about that. Which didn’t surprise Mycroft. Of course it would interfere with his examination urges.

“For this it should be. Unflavoured lube tastes very nasty.”

“I see. Well, I will use it then to put my fingers into you and then lick it off to have the pure taste.”

Mycroft felt his mouth go dry at this matter-of-fact statement. He cleared his throat. “Yes, that… sounds… good.”

Sherlock quickly unbuttoned his shirt. “John will be back late and Molly has taken Rosie for the night. We'll have more time tonight.”

That did sound good as well. But he doubted that it would make Sherlock stay any longer. Why should he?

Mycroft pushed the thought aside and took his robe off while his now stark-naked brother was throwing himself across the bed.

Mycroft took a deep breath and sat down next to him, reaching out for a pillow. “Put that under your groin. Makes access easier.”

“Oh, sure.” A moment later Sherlock was laid out for him in a deliciously obscene way.

Mycroft could do nothing but stare at his globes for a long moment. They were perfect. So round, so plush, so golden and tasty and… He stared and stared until he realised that Sherlock had turned his head and was watching him with a strange expression. It wasn't mocking and not even overly impatient. It was almost… fond? No. He was imagining things…

“Ready?” he unnecessarily asked Sherlock, pretending he had not done anything but look so far to give him time to adjust to the situation. As if Sherlock would have needed that so far…

Sherlock grinned. “My arse is all yours, brother.”

 _I wish your heart was mine, too…_ Blushing and hoping this embarrassing thought hadn't shown on his face, Mycroft hastily repositioned himself, put his hands on the warm, soft skin and spread those perfect half-moons to start lesson number three.

*****

Sherlock had the strong feeling he was going to die on this bed tonight. From pleasure, of course.

Panting into the pillow, he was floating on a cloud of arousal and… something else. It was such a submissive position, having his brother hover over him and lick and nibble and kiss every inch of his arse and especially the crack between his wobbling cheeks. Sherlock rolled his eyes unconsciously whenever Mycroft used two of his fingers, opening him up for the tip of his tongue to dip inside him. He even sucked at Sherlock's hole probingly, making Sherlock literally bite into the pillow.

He knew Mycroft's mind was working like his own. He was sure his brother would store each of his reactions, his moans, twitches and the way his hands fisted the sheets when Mycroft did _this_ or his deep growling when he did _that_. Sherlock could sense him doing this.

But what for? To be able to satisfy him? Or did he store this information for the next man he would be doing it to? He had said he hadn't done anything with anyone for a long time and he had never pleased anyone like this before but now that he was experiencing it with Sherlock, he might change his mind about that. Perhaps their experimental encounters had woken his sexual appetites and now he would start looking out for someone else he could do it with.

Someone who wasn't snarky and nasty and selfish and difficult and demanding and…

Oh, he _knew_ he was like this. John had told him often enough. Mrs Hudson had always tried to change him. Molly had been so upset that Christmas when he had deduced her present for him to shreds. Lestrade had reprimanded him time after time. Everybody had always told him to behave nicer and he had sometimes even bothered to do it; it didn’t hurt to not be yelled at and he hated to see women cry because of him.

Mycroft had told him to behave better, too. Many times… But Sherlock had never even tried to be nicer to him. Apart from these three days from facing this patience grenade to visiting Sherrinford. And immediately after when he had tried to convince their parents that Mycroft had not failed them as much as they thought.

But then… He had been his usual self to him. It had just… happened. Naturally. And Mycroft had accepted his behaviour without complaining. He had more or less immediately given in to Sherlock's suggestion of having sex. Yes, of course he had wanted it but he hadn't asked for anything from him. In fact he had even told him he didn’t have to reciprocate what he was doing for Sherlock several times.

Why? Sherlock liked it. A lot. Mycroft was manly and tall and his hairy chest was really nice… His sperm had done very interesting things under his microscope. And his dick was huge… As huge as his brain and his patience for Sherlock.

It was perhaps a bit strange to think about this while Mycroft was licking his hole with slurping noises but yes – no matter how much Mycroft had tried to make him a better person, how much he had more or less begged him to stop with the drugs and lead a safe life, he had always had oceans of patience for him, hidden behind his eye-rolling and raised eyebrows and exasperated sighs. Whenever Sherlock had needed him, he had been there.

Like he was now… He was in him. With his _tongue_.

Sherlock pulsed into the pillow under his groin so abruptly and so strongly that it almost ripped him apart. He hadn't even felt it coming…

He got completely boneless within an instant, feeling thoroughly spent in more than one way.

And then he felt a mouth kissing his bum, then his back, then his shoulders and he turned around with the last strength he could muster, put his hand on Mycroft's neck and forced him down, claiming his mouth in a deep kiss, thinking, _'He can't do this with anyone else after me! I won't allow it!'_

*****

Mycroft felt right-out dizzy when he was released from Sherlock's iron grip around his neck. This kiss… But of course Sherlock had only done it for scientific reasons.

“Was it very nasty?” he asked. Sherlock looked at him, apparently confused. “Tasting yourself on my tongue, I mean.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Was it nasty for you to do it, then?”

“No! Of course not! I lo… liked it a lot. But kissing afterwards and tasting yourself; it must have been a bit weird. But probably you don't see it like that as you just kiss for getting data.”

Sherlock stared at him before he nodded. “Right. That could be the reason. So… Your turn.”

“No, really, Sherlock, you don't…” The next moment he found himself flat on the bed, face first. A pillow was shoved under his groin rather impatiently and he helped Sherlock to place it. His brother seemed to be determined to do this so there was no talking him out of it.

_As if you wanted that!_

He couldn’t disagree with his inner voice, knowing it was right (as usual). He winced when the cold lube dribbled onto his arse before Sherlock's big hands carefully wiped it over his hole. And then he felt something he had not expected – a kiss on his left arse cheek. But of course he had done it, too, so Sherlock just mimicked his actions.

He wondered who would benefit from what he had taught Sherlock in the end.

John…? No. The doctor was indeed not gay and if Sherlock had fancied him, he wouldn’t have needed Mycroft to get some experiences. Some faceless stranger who could stumble into his brother's life anytime? A client? A new detective inspector? A big fan? It could happen anytime.

Sherlock had not paid attention to any of his certainly countless admirers so far as it seemed but now that he had discovered his sexual side, he would perhaps change his mind about stupid goldfish. Not everybody out there was stupid anyway. He could use the internet to find an adequate partner. An academic. Someone good-looking and interesting. And more appropriate than his own big brother, each and every one of these potential lovers…

It would kill Mycroft, of course it would. But he would just smile and offer Sherlock his advice if he needed it. He would do anything to support his brother's happiness. Anything… No matter that it would make him die inside…

But now Sherlock was inside him, with one probing finger, and damn, it felt so good. Mycroft would simply enjoy and cherish each and every second spent with Sherlock like this and deal with his broken heart when he had to.

Now he switched off his brain and just allowed himself to be pleasured, and pleasure it was.

Sherlock licked him and fingered him for a time that felt endless and still way too short and then he spilled into the pillow as well. A moment later he was rolled onto his back and Sherlock kissed him again. And it was strange to taste his musky taste on his tongue but Mycroft loved it because he was allowed to plunder Sherlock's mouth and kiss and kiss until he was dizzy again, and Sherlock's eyes looked completely dazed when they finally broke apart.

“And?” the detective asked with a surprisingly shivering voice. “Was it nasty for you?”

“No, little brother. It was… very interesting. And what do you think of your first attempt at rimming?”

“It was… very interesting. I'm sure I could go deeper though. We must do this again.”

“Oh… Yes, sure.”

“But I think I'll want to be fucked by you tomorrow.”

“Oh… Um… Yes. Eight?” He expected Sherlock to jump from the bed and leave like the evening before.

But instead his brother said, “Fine! Damn, I haven't eaten anything since lunch. Do you have a sandwich or something?”

Mycroft felt as if he was hallucinating. Sherlock wanted him to give him something to eat? He stood up so fast that he got dizzy. “Yes, of course. I'll prepare something and bring it up here.”

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

Mycroft caught himself staring at him before he managed to pull himself together. Sherlock wanted to eat with him. He had _thanked_ him! Again! “Not a problem. Be right back.”

Sherlock nodded and gave him something that resembled a smile. And Mycroft couldn’t help but smiling back and he feared he was looking like a fool.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys enjoy a light supper together.

“Egg salad!” Sherlock's eyes brightened up when Mycroft handed him the plate.

Mycroft, who had refreshed himself in the downstairs bathroom before heading into the kitchen, sat down on the bed next to him. Eating in bed! He'd never even thought of doing that. But then he had never shared this bed with anyone. Not even for the short time he was allowed to enjoy Sherlock's presence. “Well, it was your favourite as a child and I thought you might still like it.” Of course he had not made it himself but it was the most expensive sort he could find and he'd had plenty of it left from the last evening.

Sherlock's eating habits had always been difficult, carefully put, even as a child. He had refused to eat whenever he was a) busy with an experiment, b) in a rotten mood, and c) just determined to annoy everybody. So he had been an extremely skinny child and Mycroft knew his mother had been very worried about it. It had only been like this after Victor's disappearance though – a changed boy in so many ways… In any way sandwiches with egg salad had been the only food he had still appreciated and hardly refused to eat. So it had been a safe bet to make them for him.

He only realised now that Sherlock had taken the plate but was just staring at him. “What?”

“You still remember that? What I liked to eat?”

“Well, you do know we don't forget anything if we don't choose to forget it.”

“Yes but… there was no reason to remember which food I like! You have so much more important things to put into your mind palace. Why waste any space for this?”

 _Oh, Sherlock… As if I'd ever delete anything about_ you _…_ He shrugged. “I thought it might be required someday. And it was after all.”

“Not really, Mycroft. You could have just asked me what I want. Or give me something you like. I'm not picky.”

Mycroft smiled. “No?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not about food, not anymore. John and I have lived from beans and toast for years.”

“Sure. But you _are_ picky when it comes to designer brands and men.” He blushed, facing away from Sherlock. Why had he said that? In fact Sherlock could have done a lot better with another man – one without extensive body hair, a receding hairline and fat rolls and being his overprotective older brother…

“I do prefer nice clothes. And I prefer non-idiots as I explained to you. And… perhaps it's like with the sandwiches. You prefer what you know and have always liked over something you could be… disappointed by… or… get hurt by…” The last words had come out so quietly that Mycroft had problems to understand them.

But when he did, these words touched his very soul. Perhaps it was not very flattering to be compared to a sandwich but… hadn't Sherlock just said that… he had always liked him? That he knew Mycroft would neither disappoint nor hurt him?

He looked at his brother who now hastily stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth and avoided his gaze. Of course – he had to be embarrassed about having said something so nice to Mycroft. He had never said anything remotely like this to him for… well, forever since he'd grown up.

Mycroft remembered the times before Victor had disappeared and Sherlock had changed so much. His five-year-old brother, clinging to his neck and tickling him, giggling and happy, saying, _'Love you, Mycie!'_ He could still hear him saying these words in his bright child's voice.

What he wouldn’t give to hear them in Sherlock's deep baritone… But of course that would never happen. But Sherlock had said he liked him and Mycroft would never forget these words, even and especially when their relationship would go down the hill again as soon as Sherlock decided he'd made enough sexual experiences with him now…

Sherlock gobbled down the second sandwich, relaxing a bit next to him when Mycroft didn’t say anything to his little outburst of sentiment.

“Good?” Mycroft teased him and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him with his mouth full, but his eyes were sparkling and they smiled at one another. And then Sherlock offered him the plate which contained three more sandwiches.

He took one and gingerly bit off a small bit. Yes, it _was_ good… Would Sherlock make a remark about his weight now? But he hadn't seemed too repulsed by Mycroft's form the past couple of days. And he had said he'd _lost_ weight after all.

And Sherlock did not say anything like this. He said nothing at all, and neither did Mycroft, but somehow this silence wasn't a bad thing. It was a piece of an unknown normality – sitting side by side, propped up against the pillows, sharing a tasty little supper in companionable silence – after having rimmed one another; so much for normality…

When they were finished – Mycroft had eaten a second sandwich as well – Sherlock asked, “Would you mind if I took a shower?”

When had he ever been so polite to him? Just a few days ago he had more or less broken into his house and used the shower without thinking anything about it, and then he had demanded sex.

He loved his brother exactly the way he was, whichever way he was. But he had to admit this new Sherlock was an exceptionally loveable one. He would cherish this kind version as long as it existed…

“Of course you can do that. You can do anything you want here.”

Sherlock looked at him for a couple of seconds, then he gave him a shy smile. “Thanks. For everything. But… I need some data after dinner.” And with this he kissed Mycroft again, softly and as if he was wondering if it was welcome in this clearly non-sexual situation.

Mycroft didn’t even hesitate for a second, curling his right arm around him and pulling him close, and with his eyes shut he allowed himself to melt into this kiss until Sherlock pulled away with flushed cheeks, gave him a light slap on the shoulder and disappeared into the bathroom.

Yes, Sherlock had changed. And Mycroft loved him more than ever. But he knew it wouldn’t last and he should better be prepared for the inevitable rejection.

A few minutes later Sherlock dressed and left, but he didn’t leave without telling him that he would be back the next evening for his next lesson – bottoming for Mycroft.

Mycroft soaked in his tub for half an hour afterwards, thinking about every second of this evening. He was feeling lighter than he had done for years, despite knowing that these happy days were numbered. He did feel a bit tired and his head had started to throb when he crawled back into his bed after changing the linen. He fell asleep very early, dreaming of little Sherlock at the beach and how he had looked at him with huge, admiring eyes, suddenly turning into adult Sherlock who reached out and touched his groin, and he wanted to tell him he loved him but his throat was so sore that he couldn’t get these words out.

*****

Sherlock was sitting in the back of a cab that would bring him home to Baker Street. And he realised that he wished he had stayed with Mycroft for longer. But he was still feeling weird around him, especially after his emotional slipping. His brother hated talking about sentiment after all, no matter that he was obviously very capable of feeling it. He had always been his protector after all. And now he was his… lover? Was that the correct expression? Hadn't they left the grounds of allowing Sherlock to gain some sexual experiences? They had eaten together and… it had been very nice. But surely this was just a brotherly thing they had only not done ever before because Sherlock had been behaving like a brat. Mycroft still was and would always be his brother after all.

A brother with soft lips and a devilish tongue and beautiful blue eyes and wonderful, long fingers and legs and a cock he could have shamed any porn star with. His bum was also very nice and tasted delicious. His brother was simply a very sexy man. Thank God he was like Sherlock and hated to waste his attention at undeserving men. Otherwise someone would have taken him away long ago.

What would happen when he had shown Sherlock everything he wanted to show him? Would he send him away, telling him they were through?

Sherlock didn’t like this thought. Not a bit. He would have to investigate more and find other things Mycroft still had to teach him. But he guessed there wasn’t much left apart from involving rather nasty body fluids or spanking, and he wasn't sure he wanted his brother to give him a good hiding; he might have waited for this opportunity for ages… But damn… if that meant Sherlock would have more pleasant evenings like this one, he would ask Mycroft even for that.

He just didn’t want to lose him again. Not as a brother who made sandwiches for him and remembered what Sherlock had liked as a bloody _toddler_. And not as a man with magic hands and lips and a cock he couldn’t wait to have inside him.

And damn – he loved kissing him… And he could tell that Mycroft loved that, too, even though he never initiated it. Perhaps one kiss would have been sufficient for getting data. Or two, for tasting his sperm on his tongue. Three, for tasting his rear end on it… But that last kiss had not been scientifically necessary and Mycroft had to know it. And still he had kissed him back with vigour. So he liked it surely?

When Sherlock climbed out of the cab and went into the house, he could still feel Mycroft's lips on his own and he caught himself smiling when he walked upstairs. But his smile died when he imagined that very soon this experiment would be over.

He would miss having sex with Mycroft. He would miss kissing him. He would miss him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, Mycroft. I'm not quite as bad as you think I am!”  
> “Not bad at all. I just… never thought you'd care.”

“Um, any ideas?” A certain DI was looking at him out of huge brown eyes, the impersonation of _having-no-idea_.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“The _case_ , Sherlock. Do you have an idea?” Lestrade looked rather worried now. “Is everything all right? Do you need help with anything?”

Sherlock snorted. He already had someone who was helping him quite a bit, thanks very much. Had he really appeared so distracted? Yeah, probably. He glanced at the body on the floor. “It's obvious,” he said, glad it really was. This was a boring office room with a bloody corpse in an ugly suit on the even uglier carpet, nothing new under the sun.

He had been rather fidgety all morning. John had told him to not ignore the clients already and concentrate on their problems. But all he could think of was this evening… Having his brother inside him… It made him tingle from head to toe… and especially in between… He would be pressed against Mycroft's front if Mycroft would take him from behind. Or would he suggest Sherlock should go on all fours? Or… would Sherlock be on his back with Mycroft above him? Then they could kiss while Mycroft was…

“Is it?” Lestrade interrupted his pleasant imagining.

It took him a moment to even realise he had been asked something, bothered by it but glad Lestrade was looking straight into his face. “Yes, Gus! Look how he is holding his hand! Look at his collar! His brother-in-law has killed him because he didn’t want to give him money!” It was clear as day! Would this man _ever_ learn anything?

“Um. I don't see why, sorry…”

Sherlock sighed. He liked the man and he was a good one but _sometimes_ … “Look…” And then his phone vibrated, and he pulled it out. He furrowed his brow when he saw it was a text from Mycroft. Mycroft had not once texted him since they had started their… whatever it was they had. And then he read the text and at first he was just deeply disappointed. Then a little pissed off. And then worried.

“I have to go,” he told Lestrade. “Arrest his sister's husband. He will confess.”

“But…”

Sherlock didn’t hear him anymore, stalking away from the lawyer's office they had found the corpse in. Three minutes later he was sitting in a cab.

*****

Mycroft was feeling horrible. Not only because he was lying in his bed in the middle of a work day, his head thrumming, his throat hurting miserably, his nose running, in short with a full-blooded cold. Not in the least because he'd had to call in sick for the first time in about ten years – England would not fall if he missed work for a day or two. But because he'd had to text Sherlock that they couldn’t continue their arrangement tonight. He had still hoped he would feel better after taking some medicine he had been brought by someone from a nearby drugstore and drinking some ginger tea but it hadn't happened. He did have a bit of fever and kept sneezing himself dizzy every few minutes. He wondered if Sherlock was ill, too, after kissing him so thoroughly…

He had fallen asleep after sending the text but now he reached out for his phone, feeling like a ninety-year-old, and saw that his brother hadn't answered him.

Feeling even worse than before, he sank back into the pillows – and then he tensed when he heard a noise from downstairs. Someone was in the house. Sherlock? Well, who else? Why had he come? To complain about him cancelling their appointment? Surely he wasn't here because he wanted to look after him…?

And then Sherlock stormed into the bedroom, looking down on him with a stony face, diagnosing what he was suffering from within seconds obviously. It wasn’t too hard though…

“Hello, little brother,” Mycroft croaked. “I'm sorry, I can't have sex with you now…”

Sherlock huffed and stalked to the window and opened it up, letting a warm breeze into the room. “I'll make tea,” he stated after coming back to the bed and grimacing at the cold and almost empty cup. “Did you eat anything?”

“Bit… Not hungry.”

“You must eat. Mrs Hudson makes chicken soup whenever John or Rosie are ill. I never get it.”

“Doesn't dare bother you, the cold,” Mycroft mumbled, and Sherlock grinned.

“Exactly!” He pulled out his phone. “Mrs Hudson? Yes, it's me. Listen, do you have any of your chicken soup in the freezer? Excellent! My brother managed to get ill and… Yes, I'll come and fetch it. See you in half an hour! Bye!” He ended the connection. “It will heal you in no time.”

Mycroft smiled weakly. Mrs Hudson giving Sherlock soup for him. Sounded like a miracle. But… “You told her it's for me.”

“So what? You're sick and you're my brother. Nothing fishy about it.”

That might have been true for normal brothers but…

Sherlock put his phone on the nightstand. “Don't fret your pretty head about her. I'll make tea now. Just sleep a bit.”

He must be dreaming this episode. Sherlock hadn't come to make him tea and give him food. And what had he just said…? _'Pretty head'_?! His fever must have been higher than he had expected; that was the only explanation.

He must have dozed off but he woke up when Sherlock sat down on the bed. “Come, sit up and drink something.”

Sherlock stuffed a pillow behind his back after urging him to bend forward, causing him to sneeze, and then he handed him a fresh mug with steaming tea that contained honey as far as he could say with his swollen nose.

Gratefully he sipped at it, and somehow he was already feeling better. But… “You won't want to have sex with me today, will you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course! I'm just here to _fuck_ with you!” Mycroft winced and Sherlock shook his head. “Oh, brother… You've always done that when I was little,” he said, a lot quieter. “Made me tea and… were nice. Once I puked all over you.”

Mycroft smiled. “Fond memories indeed.” He supposed Sherlock had got these memories back after the Eurus disaster.

Sherlock grinned but he looked a bit insecure. “Just here to… look how you're doing and make sure you don't die in this bed. I still have use for you!” He winked at Mycroft and Mycroft felt like crying.

“I'm glad you came. Never thought you would…” He sneezed again and blew his nose. It would probably fall off soon…

“Ah, Mycroft. I'm not quite as bad as you think I am!”

“Not bad at all. I just… never thought you'd care.”

“I've always cared,” Sherlock said, sounding as if his was news even to himself. “Always. Admired you so much, my smart big brother.” There was a shy smile on his face when he said this but then it died. “And when I got older, I always felt as if I was not good enough for you. The disappointing brother, playing with fire all the time. Didn’t even know it was because of Eurus partly, wasn't it? You were afraid I'd become like her.”

Mycroft forced himself to get more awake now. This was important. “No, Sherlock. I knew you were not in the least like her. The only time that happened was… Magnussen.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “I'm not proud of that, Mycroft. But I don't mourn this arsehole either. He got what he deserved. And you sent me away…”

“Oh, brother. I'd never have let anything happen to you. I was horrified. Afraid you could finally… get dark. But I'd have always got you out.”

Sherlock nodded. “I should have known that. And I guess on some level I did.” He got up. “I'll be back with the soup as soon as I can. Do you need anything else?”

“No, Sherlock. As long as you come back…” The illness had made him seriously sentimental and he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t be repulsed.

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, and then Sherlock said, “You won't get rid of me again, brother.”

“You mean until… I've showed you everything?”

Sherlock's voice was very quiet when he answered. “No. I didn’t mean that.”

“Oh, Sherlock… I…”

“Sleep now. I'll be back in no time. If you think of anything you might need, text me.” And with this Sherlock was gone.

Mycroft was terrified of what he had almost said. And so had Sherlock been, obviously.

But…

Sherlock wouldn’t have come today and do all this if he didn’t care about him. He wouldn’t have kissed him so thoroughly the night before if all he wanted was sex. He wouldn’t have said what he'd just said if this was all just an experiment.

Sherlock loved him.

He loved him. It was a thought to find God about…

But his own feelings seem to scare Sherlock so Mycroft had to be careful. But he was sure that he wasn’t imagining them and despite his snotty nose and his aching throat, he felt happier than ever before. Not even another sneezing attack that made his ears ring could change anything about it.

*****

Sherlock looked at his sleeping brother for a long time after quietly entering the bedroom. He looked so vulnerable in his huge bed, used tissues next to him on the nightstand, his breathing too loud and heavy, his forehead sweaty, a black stubble on his cheeks. He wondered if he should have asked John to come along but he was pretty sure it was a simple cold nobody could do anything about. Apart from the magic soup he had brought, already in the kitchen and ready to be warmed up.

He would do that in a minute. He just couldn’t leave now. On silent feet he walked closer to the bed and sat down. Mycroft mumbled something but he didn’t wake up.

This was the man who had taught him almost everything he knew. From reading to riding a car. From anatomy to dressing like a gentleman. Shakespeare, science, French, swimming… Not so long ago Mycroft had said that the man Sherlock had become was his memory of Eurus. Bullshit. What Sherlock was, how he was thinking, feeling and behaving (well, at least when he was behaving decently), he was because of Mycroft, not Eurus. This man was the most important person in his life.

For a few years he had thought it was John. But what he had been through with his flatmate, what he was feeling for him, was nothing compared to what Mycroft meant to him. His protector, his admonisher, his conscience – all the roles that John had taken over when they had moved in with each other – Mycroft had been all this before and besides that, he was his brother, his mentor, and now even his lover.

And he loved him. As a brother like he'd done all his life, even though he had chosen to forget that during and after adolescence. A rift of resentments had opened up between them wider and wider and had swallowed all the positive feelings he'd had for his brother, but he found that it had closed now, giving him back what he had felt for him. And he also loved him as the man he had only just 'met'. He had got high on his taste and smell and body and lips, knowing he had to come back again and again to get more of it. He had even hidden that from himself, but had Mycroft not wondered why he had patiently only asked for one lesson each day? They could have done it all in one night… But after the first look at his brother's naked body, the first time he had touched his cock, the first time he had kissed him – he had been lost. It had taken him a few days to realise it but then – he wasn't used to doing sentiment.

And Mycroft, the biggest despiser of sentiment, had almost said it. Had almost told him he loved him, and not in a brotherly way. But Sherlock didn’t want to hear that from a sick, half-conscious man who might regret this confession later. Mycroft should have a clear head and not feel so vulnerable. Then Sherlock would believe him. Would believe that he didn’t just love him, Sherlock was sure he did, but that he was willing to go down a path even more challenging and difficult than the path of a fucked-up sibling relationship and the path they were on now; a plainly sexual relationship - namely the path of being full-on lovers.

Lovers that had to hide their love from the world. From everybody. Sherlock trusted his friends – John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly, with his life. But he wouldn't trust anyone with this knowledge. John, who had big problems with Mycroft's authority and rebelled against it even more than Sherlock had used to do. Mrs Hudson, who had been happy that he and Mycroft were being on such good terms now that Sherlock fetched her famous chicken soup for him but who was an old lady, not conservative in her opinions, not by far, but incest was tough stuff indeed, and she might believe Mycroft had forced him with his power. Lestrade, the policeman, the representation of law – would he accept a law-breaking relationship? And Molly… Who was still in love with him, knowing she would never have him. But would she accept that he took his own brother as his lover instead? And then there were their parents… Who had to deal with a daughter they had believed to be dead for thirty years just to find out she was alive but incarcerated because she was a danger for society and had wanted their older son dead… They struggled with Eurus so much. They wouldn’t survive the truth about their sons even though it was about love, not insanity and violence. What if they thought Mycroft had coerced him, what if they thought they had both gone crazy, too?

He could be wrong about everything. Perhaps everybody they knew would accept it and support them. But no. It was way too dangerous to even try because it could never be taken back. This had to stay a secret and that would make everything even more difficult.

Sherlock was willing to go down that path, knowing it could very well go wrong in so many ways. How long until they would argue and say things that couldn’t be taken back? They were so good at that. Well, actually _Sherlock_ was very good at that… But he was ready to take the challenge and do what Mycroft had demanded from him for so long – grow up. Now he had a damn good reason for it…

In this moment Mycroft stirred and opened his eyes. “Hey…” he croaked.

“Hey.” Sherlock pressed his arm. “I'll go and reheat the soup now, and you'll be a good boy and eat it, and then you'll take your medicine and then you'll sleep some more.”

“And you?”

“I'll keep you company until the evening. And if you don't feel better then, I'll stay overnight if you want me.”

“Can you… can you do that anyway?”

Sherlock nodded. “I can. And now try to stay awake; it's time to be fed.”

“Oh, no need for that. I can manage alone.” He proceeded to get up.

“Where do you think you're going?”

“Bathroom, Sherlock. If you aren't keen on some kinky experiences now…”

Sherlock laughed. “Dear God… Is it the fever talking or are you really a bit perverse?”

Mycroft winked, standing on his legs now. “Both.”

“Good to know. Come, let me help you.”

“Nah, I'm fine. Just go downstairs.”

Sherlock nodded. Mycroft did look a little better now and the soup would cure him in no time.

He hurried downstairs and put a part of it into the microwave. He also produced a few sandwiches and brought everything up on a tray.

Mycroft was sitting on his bed, propped up against the backrest, smiling at him. His hair was damp, and he smelled like body wash and toothpaste but he had foregone shaving. Which was fine with him – it made him look a bit rough and… sexy in a different way than usual… Sherlock put the tray onto his lap and handed him a spoon.

“Bon appetite.” Sherlock took a sandwich himself. He hadn't eaten a lot today. Well, he never did. Somehow he did like to eat in his brother's presence.

“Thank you.” Mycroft proceeded to eat the first spoonful of chicken soup but then he stopped. “Are you sure she didn’t poison it?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, because I did that myself.”

Mycroft laughed out loud and spilled a bit of soup and Sherlock grinned. When had he heard his brother laugh the last time? He really couldn’t remember.

Mycroft ate a bit and nodded. “It's very good!”

“It is. I've brought enough for today and tomorrow. That should do. And I'll ask her for the recipe so I can cook it for you whenever you need some.”

Mycroft turned his head to either side as if he was looking for something. “Have you seen Sherlock anywhere? Because _you_ must be an imposter.”

“Smartarse…”

“Oh, no, it's really you!”

“Eat your soup, snotty man!”

They shared a smile and Sherlock patted his brother's leg through the blanket, and sat down next to him, feeling his warm arm pressed against his own.

This was just nice. Sweet even. Something he could get very well used to. And he knew Mycroft was thinking the same.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, fluff and a bit of sex Mycie can manage in his state.

His bladder woke Mycroft in the middle of the night – drinking hectolitres of tea did have its consequences…

He opened his eyes and was confused for a moment when he realised he wasn’t alone. Slowly he turned his head and since the moon was shining some pale light through the not quite closed curtains, he could see his brother's peaceful face, beautiful like a marble statue with his exquisite cheekbones and these perfectly shaped lips. He was sleeping deeply, undisturbed by Mycroft's movements and his rather loud breathing.

It was a deeply touching sight – his brother sleeping next to him, obviously feeling safe and comfortable at sharing a bed with him like they had done when he'd been little.

He knew it couldn’t be, no matter what feelings Sherlock had for him, but in this moment he wished nothing more that he could always wake up next to him. Of course Sherlock couldn’t stay over with him often. His landlady and friend would wonder about him keeping him company tonight already but he knew Sherlock had texted John to tell him he would look after his brother and they would certainly just think they had reconciled – which had to be stunning enough to them after all these years of snarky remarks, vicious bickering and simply being awful to each other. That he had been like this in self-defence didn’t make it that much better on his part.

Very slowly he got up and disappeared into the bathroom, relieving himself as quietly as he could even though he couldn’t avoid making some noise.

But Sherlock had a deep sleep and hadn't moved when he came back. He lay back at his side and couldn’t help but reaching out and very carefully touch an off-standing black curl.

He only then realised that he was feeling so much better. He certainly didn’t have any fever anymore and his throat was hurting not nearly as much as a few hours before. His nose was still swollen and sore of course and he didn’t feel completely healthy but… somehow this soup had indeed worked wonders. Or was it rather Sherlock's presence and his care?

He supposed he would be able to go to work again the next day but probably they would have to postpone their next lesson for another day. He didn’t mind that too much. At least one more day to look forward to taking Sherlock sweetly and tenderly and showing him what sex should really be about. Mycroft had never done it like this before either but he knew it would be like this with him. And the Sherlock who had come to look after him hadn't appeared like a Sherlock who planned to disappear from his life again at once when it was done.

There was hope. Hope for love, not just sex. He knew he still had to consider the possibility that sooner or later Sherlock would change his mind and put an end to it, after they were through with their arrangement or at any later point, and he knew it would break his heart, but nothing and nobody would take these memories from him – Sherlock bringing him soup and just sitting next to him, talking to him like they had done before they had gone to sleep. Sherlock had been kind and friendly and he would never forget this blissful time. And even if Sherlock ended what they had now and what possibly would develop – he would never resent him for it and he would love him from afar like he'd always done. Sherlock was first and foremost his little brother, and he would never want him to continue with something he didn’t want to. Sherlock's happiness was his top priority. Thank God Sherlock wasn't a man who did anything to just please others… He would for sure let him know when he had enough and Mycroft would understand.

He bent forward and brushed a kiss onto the tip of Sherlock's nose before he lay back into the pillows to sleep a little more, feeling comfortable and happy next to the man he loved.

*****

“I can't believe you brought them back!” The ugly, middle-aged man in the ugly tweed-suit, sitting at his ugly desk in his ugly office, beamed at Sherlock with his ugly yellow teeth.

“Well, I didn’t exactly bring them back…”

“You know what I mean!” The redhead sounded seriously happy and not offended in the least by his rather annoyed tone. “Now I know where they are and the bad guy who stole them is in prison, and I'll get them back in no time!”

How could anyone be so obsessed with some damn _lorries_?!

Sherlock took out his phone and without really looking at it, he fired off a text.

_How are you? Hope you take it easy today. SH_

“I'll pay you three-thousand pounds!” The client grabbed his chequebook and a biro.

“We agreed on one-thousand-five-hundred.” And it had taken him ages to find out who had stolen these damn big cars and solve the case simply because it had been so boring. John had insisted on it in the end...

“You worked so hard on bringing me back my ba… lorries; that must be rewarded!”

_I'm quite all right and yes, I do. Anthea makes sure I do. Thanks for asking. How is your day? MH_

_Boring but profitable. Like yours I guess… SH_

Sherlock shrugged and took the cheque. “Well, I'm not complaining… Goodbye then.”

“Goodbye, Mr Holmes! It's true what they say – you are the greatest detective of all times!” The man looked at him with eyes full of admiration.

_You could say that. Had the rest of the soup for lunch. It is really magic. Would you like to come over later? MH_

“Ah, thanks. I do what I can,” Sherlock tried to sound modest.

_Of course I will come over. I will bring dinner from Angelo's if you want? Guess you don't need more of the soup? SH_

_That would be lovely. Thank you, brother mine. Not sure if I feel quite good enough for, well, you know what. But having dinner with you would be very nice, and as delicious as the soup was, I think I can manage something more substantial. MH_

Sherlock shook his head while he was leaving the ugly building of the transport company. Of course Mycroft was not in the condition for this. Perhaps the next day… He just… wanted to see him… be with him…

_Lasagne then. And don't worry about that. I won't let you off the hook forever though. SH_

He raised his hand and a cab stopped beside him, and he got Mycroft's answer when he had just told the driver to bring him to Baker Street.

_I wouldn’t dream of backing out. Well… I really look forward to whatever we will do, today or tomorrow or the day after or next week. MH_

_Or ever? SH_

Sherlock stared at his own text that his fingers seemed to have written without his brain formulating the thought before. But… He didn’t regret having written them. And he thought again that this was one of the many reasons he preferred texting over calling. It was so much easier to show feelings…

It didn’t take Mycroft long to answer but the gap was longer than before and Sherlock already feared his words hadn't been welcome, but probably Mycroft had just dropped his phone in surprise because Sherlock knew he wanted this, too… Wanted this to last and to bloom, if he wanted to be sappy and he was afraid that he was about to become _pretty_ sappy in the near future if Mycroft would let him…

_Or ever, brother dear. MH_

Sherlock stared at this text for a long time and eventually he caught himself smiling at his phone like any other idiot in love.

*****

“You do look a lot better,” Sherlock said when he hung up his coat after handing their dinner, wrapped in a plastic bag, over to his brother.

“I feel much better than yesterday,” Mycroft said, very glad he did. He had even survived a meeting with the Prime Minister without sneezing at him. His throat wasn't sore anymore and his head had stopped hurting, too. “This soup was really magic stuff. Well, I've always known Mrs Hudson was a witch…”

Sherlock laughed out loud and put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. “Ungrateful scamp.”

Mycroft grinned. “Don't tell her, please. She'll turn me into a skunk…” They walked over to the living room where Mycroft had prepared the table, and he definitely enjoyed the weight of Sherlock's hand on him.

“I suppose she thinks you already are…”

“Probably. Nah, she called me a reptile…”

“She did what?” Any hint of a smile had disappeared from Sherlock's face.

“Oh, never mind. Ancient history.”

Sherlock shook his head and flung himself onto the couch. “They are all so stupid. Think you're a cold, heartless bastard.”

“Well…” Mycroft sat down in his chair after putting the bag with the food onto the table.

Sherlock glowered at him. “I never thought that! Never!” He paused, and his face fell. “But I treated you as if you were… I'm sorry, Mycroft. Sorry for so much that I don't even know where to start – with stealing your laptop after sedating you? Twisting your arm and push you against the wall? Breaking into your house and scare you with Wiggins' people? All the diet jokes? Refusing to help you with cases? I could go on and on… And until this moment, I didn’t even realise that I have so much to apologise for… What an idiot I am…”

“Sherlock. Don't. It's all right. All forgiven and forgotten. I've never resented you for anything.”

“But you should have! You should have shaken me and hit me and…”

“No, I'll leave that to Doctor Watson…” Mycroft closed his mouth with an audible noise after that sharp outburst.

Both of them puffed and slumped on their respective seats.

Sherlock looked hurt and vulnerable and sad but not angry. Mycroft felt frightened and he _was_ angry – at himself. It was as if the bubble they had been in, a bubble of sex and physical joy, not love after all, or not quite at least, had been destroyed and reality had them back.

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft said. “I know he's your best friend and…”

“He is. But what he did to me… With you knowing about it… I'm surprised he's still able to walk on his own feet…”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “He wouldn’t be if you hadn't been so forgiving towards him and his late wife… And you don't need me to avenge you. If you had wanted to, you could have got rid of him without me.”

“I don't want to… get rid of him. But it's not like before and it never will be. Everything has changed. Well, not everything… I still can't remember Lestrade's first name even though I did right after Sherrinford. Molly is still hopelessly in love with me. Mrs Hudson is Mrs Hudson. But the two most important people in my life are not the same anymore to me. John is still my friend but… I don't feel about him like I did before and I'm rather sure I never will. And you… You are still my brother but…” He broke off, his cheeks flushed, and he didn’t seem to be able to finish what he had wanted to say.

But he didn’t have to. The words he had not said were written on his face, and it filled Mycroft's heart with deep affection.

He had been right. Sherlock loved him. Not that there had been much doubt after his last text: _Or ever?_

“Well, little brother,” he said softly. “Shall we eat now, have a glass of wine and… relax?”

Sherlock gave him a grateful look and got up to provide them with the dinner he had brought. “Yes. Sounds good to me.”

*****

Mycroft watched Sherlock giggling into his lasagne, feeling more than a little proud that he had managed to make him laugh by impersonating the PM’s annoying nasal way of speaking and his uptight stupidity. When had he made Sherlock laugh with him the last time? Yeah, probably when Sherlock had been five… After that, he had probably only laughed _at_ him.

He didn’t want Sherlock's apologies though. They were not needed. To see that Sherlock regretted having treated him with such contempt for so long was completely enough for him.

And he did understand him in a way. Mycroft had grown up way too soon; being around him couldn’t have been much fun anymore. He had been too serious, too matter-of-fact, too strict towards Sherlock perhaps, causing his brother to rebel against him like he had rebelled against every kind of authority.

Mycroft had not understood it at this time. He had been too focused on himself. Burdened with the knowledge and soon enough the responsibility for containing their dangerous sister, filled with the burning ambition to be… someone, to do something for his country, to… make his family proud? A family that had to mourn the loss of a child, or so they thought, and really – wasn’t Eurus a total loss anyway? It was not a very kind thought but Mycroft couldn’t find any kindness for her in himself anymore. Not directly because she had wanted Sherlock to kill him. Obviously she hadn't wanted to see him dead at all costs; it would have been easy enough for her to kill him after or instead of sedating him; instead she had simply locked him up. Her game had been to make _Sherlock_ kill him. And how would his brother have been able to live with this? Or with killing John Watson, if he had chosen to sacrifice his friend, not his brother? In any way it would have probably destroyed him. He would have never fallen in love with Mycroft without a certain nosy little girl but if he had really shot him, he would have probably realised he had loved him as a brother. But this was all rather senseless, wasn't it? Sherlock had pointed the gun at himself after all so he didn’t have to shoot either of them so he must have known it deep inside anyway… And Mycroft would never forgive Eurus for putting his brother into this situation – even though Sherlock had obviously done it, going back to her, playing the violin with her. Not lately though, he just realised…

“You all right?” Sherlock wasn't laughing anymore. In fact he looked very concerned.

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. “Yes. Just… thinking.” He took a bite of his dinner. He was sure the lasagne was fine but thanks to his cold, he didn’t taste much of it.

“Thinking, yes. The favourite hobby of the Holmes brothers. I know what you've been thinking of…”

Mycroft sighed. “So easy to deduce?”

Sherlock gave him a sad smile. “I'm not going there anymore, Mycroft. I had stopped already before this… had happened. And now? Never again.”

“You don't have to do it because of me.”

“I know you would have never demanded that. Why have you always been so nice to me?!” Sherlock yelled all at once.

Mycroft stared at him. “I'm… sorry?”

Sherlock stared back and then he burst out laughing again. “Oh, Mycroft… You overbearing, intrusive, nerve-wracking menace of an older brother!”

“Um… Thank you?”

And then Sherlock was sitting on his lap, his arms wrapped around his neck. “Promise me you'll never change!”

Mycroft squeezed his waist. “Oh, that's easy, dear. No matter what else we'll become; I'm still your big brother, your conscience and the one who tells you to do better. And…,” he bent forward and whispered into Sherlock's ear, “I'm planning to be _very_ intrusive…”

Sherlock snorted and turned to him with sparkling eyes. “I can't wait for that!”

Mycroft would have loved to do it this night but even though he wasn't feeling nearly as snotty and disgusting as the day before, he was still rather exhausted. In the end he'd had fever and had spent the day at work (even though he hadn't done any really stressful things apart from enduring the PM). He wanted to feel at least almost completely healthy until he really made love to his brother for the first time. But then he had an idea.

“Perhaps there _is_ something we can do tonight…”

“I don't want you to feel obliged to entertain me physically while you're still a bit ill, and you are still pretty pale.”

“And I do appreciate that. But what do you think of a light version that you can do to me without much effort and no need for lengthy preparations?”

Sherlock eyed him eagerly. “Tell me more!”

“Ah, it's basically something straight teenagers use to do so they don't cause unwelcome pregnancy…”

“I don't really think we'd have to worry that much about that, brother…” Sherlock said dryly and Mycroft smiled.

“It's also a common thing in boys' schools so it's called 'Oxford style'. Intercrural sex, basically.”

“Oh! You mean I should…”

“… rub your cock between my thighs, yes. Best from behind, I'd say.” In this way Sherlock would hold him, his front pressed to Mycroft's back. They would be much closer than they had been before.

Sherlock nodded vehemently. “Eat up!” He returned to his place and shovelled the rest of his pasta into his mouth.

Mycroft watched him and chuckled. “Oh Sherlock. This is so… nice…”

Sherlock swallowed his food. “Yes, brother. You've been for a rough ride with me all my life. But now let niceness rule our relationship.”

Mycroft raised his glass. “A toast on that!”

Sherlock reached for his own wine and clinked glasses with him. “But we shouldn’t be nice _all_ the time. I think we can also be very naughty.”

“Oh, naughty is good!”

Sherlock emptied his glass. “Yes, Mycroft. Naughty and nice and funny, too.”

There was nothing to say against this.

Mycroft had finished his dinner, too, and stood up. “Upstairs then, brother mine?” Time for a quick shower, brushing his teeth and the next lesson. It would also be one for him as he had never done this before either.

“Definitely!”

*****

“How does it feel, little brother?” Mycroft turned his head so he could look into his lover's eyes.

Sherlock - holding him in an iron grip with both arms, his long, lubed cock sliding back and forth between Mycroft's thighs with squelching noises, panting severely - mumbled, “Feels great, Myc. So great…”

Mycroft pressed his thighs even tighter together, making Sherlock moan into his ear. “That's good…” He was holding his balls up so Sherlock didn’t push against them, holding the base of his own stiff prick with two fingers, enjoying his brother rubbing over his hole and his perineum in an increasingly steady rhythm. A part of him wished Sherlock would just change his angle and thrust into him but that would have been a very painful experience he assumed and there would be a time for that, very soon, and this encounter was spending him enough pleasure as it was.

But even more than the sexual act he enjoyed being so close to him, being held by him, feeling his hot breath against his neck and ear, feeling his heart hammer against his back, feeling wrapped up in his brother's arms as well as his affection.

There was no way to misinterpret Sherlock's feelings for him anymore. The look in his clear green-blue eyes was unmistakable. Sherlock was head over heels in love with him, looking at him full of admiration and desire instead of contempt and rejection.

Had this really just happened, after starting their sexual relationship? Or had these feelings been there before, deeply buried under resentment and brotherly bickering? Had Sherlock missed seeing his true love for him even during sex and treated him so coldly because he had unconsciously tried to protect himself from feelings that were hard to accept to say the least?

But he figured not even Sherlock would have been able to answer these questions. Emotions were complex and unexplainable in general, and this could only be even truer for them – the Holmes brothers, all brain and no heart or so they pretended, even to themselves most of the times; men who lived on facts, not feelings, dealing with lifelong problems and a whole bundle of resentments that had gotten bigger and bigger with every year.

And now? Was it even possible to overcome such cemented patterns and start over new with each other, building a foundation for a loving, long-term relationship?

“Oh Myc, this is so good, you're so good, my God…” And with this Sherlock bit down on his neck and spilled between his legs, almost crushing him in his embrace, his hand finally closing around Mycroft's hard cock, pumping him to his climax within seconds, and somehow Mycroft was very sure that the answer to this last question was a definite 'yes'.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys enjoy a lunch outside and meet someone they didn't expect. All is good!

“Am I disturbing you with my questions, Mr Holmes?!” The PM glared at him, and Mycroft hurried to store his phone and turn his fond smile into his usual indifferent expression.

“Not at all, sir,” he said suavely, and then proceeded to answer the man's questions as eloquently as ever. He was Mycroft Holmes. He could listen to stupid chattering and text with his beloved brother at the same time so he had not missed a word the man had said. Better to not provoke him any more though and refrain from reading Sherlock's texts now.

They had texted back and forth for two hours. Just a _'How are you?'_ here or a _'Can someone give Lestrade a brain?'_ there. It had been just nice.

Sherlock was nice. Not to poor Greg Lestrade perhaps but to him. Constantly. Well, since the day before, really. And Mycroft had started to have serious hope that it would remain like this, or get even better from here.

They would meet in the evening again, and since Mycroft was feeling really good today, there was nothing that could keep them from taking the final step, from really breaking the taboo – incestuous intercourse. So far it had been just oral pleasure and rutting but this night would make them real lawbreakers. And Mycroft couldn’t wait for it…

“Well, Mr Holmes, thanks a lot. That was most insightful.” The PM sounded pleased by his almost automatic answers.

Mycroft was surprised but pleased by his boss's politeness. Everybody seemed to turn out to be nicer than ever these days… Well, he wasn't complaining!

They shook hands and then the PM left to torture someone else with his presence, and Mycroft mused about having lunch. It was a beautifully warm day and he should perhaps go out and eat a sandwich in a park. Why not? He had to do some more work of course but a little break would be nice… He never went out for lunch but what a better time to do something pleasant during the day, start a nice little tradition? Now that his life had changed so much for the better already?

And then a knock at the door interrupted his pondering. “Yes?”

Anthea poked her head in. “Your brother is here. Do you have time for him?”

Did he have time for _Sherlock_? Oh yes!

He grimaced. “Wonder what he did now… Send him in, please.” He couldn’t behave if he was suddenly pleased to see him, could he? Not that he had ever _not_ liked to see Sherlock, just the conversations had not been exactly pleasant…

She nodded and then Sherlock stalked into his office in a whirl of coat and curls. “Brother. Sitting on your bum as usual?”

Mycroft suppressed a grin and glared at him. “Come in and spit it out – whom did you insult this time?” Then Sherlock closed the door and he stood up with a smile.

“What a nice surprise,” he said a lot quieter. He was sure Anthea wasn't eavesdropping but there was no way he would risk anything.

“Is it?” Sherlock asked a little shyly. “Wasn't sure if you wanted to have me here in the holy halls.” He sat down in the visitor's chair in front of his desk.

So that's why he hadn't mentioned that he planned to come here in his texts – he was insecure. Mycroft tried not to show how much this touched him and how adorable a self-conscious Sherlock was. No need to upset him…

“You're my brother. You can visit me anytime.” They would slowly but steadily show their colleagues and parents and, in Sherlock's case, friends that they were getting along better now. They could blame it on Sherrinford even though that had been some time ago. After all they were Holmeses and therefore extremely smart but also extremely slow at accepting changed sentiments; everybody who knew them was aware of that. It wasn’t a problem.

Sherlock nodded and smiled. “I was just at the bank and thought I'd drop by.”

“I'm glad you did. What do you think – should we have lunch together? Nothing massive but a sandwich maybe? Eating it outside?” This would be so much nicer with Sherlock at his side.

Sherlock's face brightened up. “That would be great! Anything else? Do you need help with a case or something?”

Mycroft put his hand over his heart. “Don't overwhelm me, brother mine. I'm not sure I can take so much sudden kindness!” It was perhaps a little mean to tease Sherlock like this but it had come very spontaneously and it showed how much the atmosphere between them had changed since the day before.

Sherlock smiled wryly. “I do deserve that. But really – don't hesitate to come to me with anything in the future.”

Mycroft reached out and patted his arm. “I was just joking, dear. I'm very glad about your offer. And as a matter of fact there is something I'd like to hear your opinion about.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “I'm all ears!”

“Anthea will go on holiday in three weeks. A long one. Her honeymoon to be precise.”

“Oh. Who's the lucky guy?”

He was joking of course. Mycroft knew for a fact that Sherlock was a bit afraid of her…

Mycroft smiled. “Someone named Melissa Carson, another agent.”

“Oh! Didn’t know that… John didn’t get it either… I guess he'll never stop hitting on her…”

“He should be careful that _she_ doesn’t hit back…” Damn… He just couldn’t let that rest obviously…

But Sherlock wasn't offended, instead he chuckled. “That was good!”

“Well… Thanks… In any way of course I'll need someone else to assist me for the month she'll be away.” He reached out and took three thin yellow folders from the left edge of his desk.

“Yeah, sure. Making tea and waggle their boobs…” Had he just sounded jealous? Of Anthea?

Mycroft laughed. “Oh, Sherlock… It's not quite like this! In fact she has a very responsible job here. She does bring me tea and lunch or get my suits from the drycleaner but she does so much more. She's my watchdog, my bodyguard, my schedule-manager and nobody gets in here if she doesn’t approve, and believe me – her boobs are very well contained. In any way I have three agents I consider for the job. Have a look please and tell me whom you would pick.” He handed the folders over to his brother.

Sherlock took them and opened the first one. “A man?”

“As a matter of fact, all of them are men. Probably I'd need all three to get one adequate substitute for her but one has to do so I need the best of the lot.”

“I see…” Sherlock quickly glanced over a black-and-white photograph and the information about the first candidate. “Hm… He drinks too much. His wife is cheating on him. Not reliable.” He took the second folder and huffed when he took in the picture of a very good-looking man named Kerry Miller. He read silently this time and Mycroft was watching him fondly. Then Sherlock turned to the third one, a forty-five-year-old former boxing champion. “Him,” he said after reading the file.

“Yes? Why? I think the second one would be an equally good choice?”

“He's too pretty!” Sherlock blurted. “I don't want him sniffing around you for a bloody month!”

“Oh, brother.” Now Mycroft was deeply touched. “Jealous, _you_? Do you really think this man would even glance at me, or that I was interested in anyone else in the least? I think I've made very clear that I'm not.”

“Yes, but… He's not a goldfish! He's very smart and has interesting hobbies and…” Sherlock tapped onto the table with two nervous fingers, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.

Mycroft leaned forward, putting his hand on Sherlock's. “My dear little brother. My beautiful, perfect little brother. Nobody will snatch me away. And if he was a handsome billionaire who tells me I'd never have to work again. I wouldn’t want him. There's only one man I've ever wanted.”

Sherlock swallowed and looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Brad Pitt?”

Mycroft laughed out loud. “You are impossible!” But he had seen the relief in Sherlock's eyes. This had not just been a joke.

Sherlock grinned. “And I thought I was perfect?”

“I take that back…”

“No you don't.”

“No. I don't. And so it will be Martin Malone. He is also gay by the way…”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Don't worry, dear. He's not my type. I'm more for the lean drama queens with curls.”

“I hate you.”

Mycroft looked him deep in the eyes and he couldn’t remember ever having such intense eye contact with his brother. “Do you?” he said quietly.

Sherlock, his cheeks showing just the hint of pink, swallowed once more and this time it wasn't on purpose. “No. I… I do not.”

An overwhelming feeling of tenderness engulfed Mycroft's heart. He loved Sherlock so much that it hurt. It had always hurt of course but now the pain was sweet and wonderful. “Well then. Shall we go and chase our lunch?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Chase how? Do you plan to hunt a rabbit for our sandwiches?”

Mycroft laughed. “Not quite. Salmon and egg would be my preferred choice. What do you think?”

“I think that you have pretty good taste.”

“Well, you only have to look into a mirror to be very sure of _that_ fact…”

They shared a smile and another deep look before they left the office to get some fresh air and sun on their faces.

*****

“Damn, that's nice…” Sherlock held his face even higher, getting as much of the sun as he could. It showed up rarely enough in this part of the world.

Mycroft admired the view next to him. Sherlock, dressed in black trousers and a violet shirt, his hair showing a soft reddish glow in the sun, his eyes clear-blue, his lips pink like a precious rose. He looked simply edible. “Indeed. A clean bench in a pretty park, warm sun, tasty sandwiches, attractive company – I could get used to that…” He took the last bite of his second sandwich and wiped his mouth with a tissue.

Sherlock turned to him and smiled. “We _could_ do this more often. When it doesn’t rain. When you're not tied up in meetings. When I'm not busy walking through puddles of blood… Damn…” His smile was gone.

Mycroft gave him a soft smile of his own. “Probably we won't be able to enjoy this very often then but we'll cherish it even more when we get the chance.”

“Right.” Sherlock smiled back and then he reached out and pressed Mycroft's hand for just a second before pulling back, and he had quickly glanced around beforehand to make sure nobody was paying attention to them.

It did make Mycroft's heart heavier. He shouldn’t want for Sherlock to lead such a life. Sherlock could never be open about their relationship to anyone, not even the people he trusted the most. He could never kiss him openly so anyone could see. They would never be able to walk hand in hand (although he doubted that Sherlock or himself would even want that; it would look rather ridiculous after all) and all they had together could only happen in Mycroft's house.

But he was selfish. He had loved and longed for his brother for the best part of two decades and now that he had him, he wished nothing more than this would last forever and that Sherlock would want that, too.

And of course Sherlock deduced his thoughts. “It does suck, Myc. Having to hide it. But it is what it is.”

“Yes, I suppose so. One has to pay the price for everything.”

“Well, as long as I get to devour your body a few times a week, I can live with the price of having to be discreet.”

Would it even work out like this? Would they be able to meet a few times a week? Mycroft would have wanted them to meet every day actually but he knew he couldn’t be that greedy. Even two or three times a week would be a challenge.

Sherlock looked at him and his forefinger brushed over Mycroft's hand. “We'll make it work. Or… do you have second thoughts?”

“Oh, Sherlock. My feelings for you… They've been there for about twenty years and I feel like a boy at Christmas Day now that I have you.”

“And I thought you hate Christmas?” Sherlock smirked at him.

“I did. But in future I want to have you, wrapped in nice, golden paper, on that day and then I'll love it.”

“Damn… We'll need lots of paper then!”

“All right, I think I can live with just a ribbon around your neck.”

Sherlock chuckled. “That's manageable I think. It's… so nice. Sitting here with you, talking like this… But even if we can only meet in your house, it's fine. _We'll_ be fine.”

Mycroft would have died for kissing him now but of course he couldn’t do it. “Yes,” he said. “We'll be fine. Well, I guess I have to go back now.”

“Oh, sure. I'll accompany you if you don't mind?”

 _Mind?_ “That would be very nice…”

They walked back to Whitehall side by side, not touching, not talking much but Mycroft was hyper aware of the beautiful man beside him; he didn’t miss the longing looks Sherlock was getting (and completely ignoring). Sherlock was his. Finally. It was still hard to believe but there was no doubt about it…

He stopped a few metres from 70 Whitehall. “It was wonderful to see you, Sherlock. I suppose our date for tonight is still set?”

“Of course! And I think tonight we will… Oh fuck…”

“What?!” Mycroft turned and followed his gaze. “Oh… blimey…”

“She didn’t tell her. No way. Hey, isn’t that…”

“…the doll, yes.” Mycroft plastered a smile onto his face. “Massandra, Paryanna. How nice to see you.”

Cousin Massandra looked pretty and kind of overdressed in her beautiful yellow summer dress. Her dark hair was neat and perfect as usual and her lips were a tad too red. She looked a bit shy, which surprised him. “Hello Mycroft, Sherlock. So glad to meet you out here; I wasn't sure if they'd let us in there.” She nodded at the building.

“They would have,” Mycroft soothed her. “They would have called my PA and she would have come to me. Would you like to come in and have some coffee?” He looked at Paryanna, looking quite cute in her pink dress, almost the same style as her mother's. “Or milk?”

She ignored his question, busy with glancing at Sherlock, then back to him. But she couldn’t draw this conclusion. That was impossible!

And then she gave him a tiny smile and her eyes were sparkling. He swallowed.

“No, we're fine. We've just come to thank you,” Massandra said, completely missing the nonverbal conversation between Mycroft and her daughter.

“Oh.”

“The doll was so expensive! I told her she can't have it until Christmas.”

“Oh, well, I'm sorry…” He hadn't even wasted a thought on how Paryanna's mother would react to this present. And he hadn't thought of an explanation… Damn, he was slipping these days…

“No, it's all right. It was very nice of you.” Massandra smiled at him. “Never thought you'd do something like that. I mean, you and children…”

He was hyper aware of Sherlock next to him, who was keeping completely silent. “Um, yes. We had such a nice talk at the wedding and… I wanted to, um, give her a treat.”

“And she loves it! Say 'thank you', darling!”

Huge blue eyes were staring into Mycroft's. “Thank you, Mycroft! I was so happy when the package came!”

 _I can imagine, you nasty little blackmailer…_ “You're very welcome,” he managed to say; after all he was very used to dealing with ghastly people who had to be treated as if he adored them…

Paryanna beamed at him but there was a hint of mockery in her eyes. Or was he hallucinating? She was a little child! “Perhaps we can go to the zoo sometime, Mycroft!” she chirped, and he paled. And he saw Sherlock turning away and he knew his brother was mightily amused.

“Oh, I'm sure he would love to do that,” the deep baritone said, and Mycroft glared at him, just to face a very amused sparkle in those wonderful eyes.

Massandra smiled brightly and proceeded to say something, but then her mobile phone rang. “Oh, excuse me!” She took the call and walked a few steps, and Mycroft watched Sherlock bending down to Paryanna and heard him mumble, “Nicely played, little cousin. You know – he'll even buy you a pony if you play your cards right.”

Mycroft gasped and Paryanna giggled, but she shook her head. “I already have one! His name is Pinkerbill! I told you at the wedding!”

“Oh, I must have missed that,” Mycroft mumbled.

“You looked so happy when you came around the corner,” she said and dear God, was she even _winking_?! She wasn’t even FOUR!

Sherlock chuckled but then he grew serious. “You know – no word to nobody.”

She shook her head vehemently. “Never. Do you like his bum now, too, Sherlock?” she asked after glancing at her mother, who was hectically talking into her phone, too far away to hear anything of their conversation.

Mycroft felt like dropping dead but Sherlock laughed. “I do.”

She nodded, looking satisfied. “Good. Thank you, Mycroft. I love my Hussaria.” She pressed the doll against her chest.

Mycroft blinked a few times and then he pulled himself together. “I'm glad to hear that. And it's really very important that you never…”

She rolled her eyes when she interrupted him. “I _know_! I'm not a _goldfish_!”

No. She was most certainly not. She was really a special little girl. A real and true Holmes. Which was both good and bad, like with every Holmes…

“What do you want to be when you're grown up?” Sherlock asked her with a smile.

“The Queen!” she answered full of conviction.

Mycroft thought he wouldn’t be surprised at all when she really managed that… The country would be in the best of hands…

“And you?” she asked Sherlock back, and now Mycroft laughed.

Sherlock grinned. “Touché! Mycroft's wife,” he whispered then, and the little girl giggled into her palm while Mycroft unconvincingly fumed at him.

“What's so funny?” Massandra asked, walking back to them.

“Oh, Sherlock just told me a joke about a priest and a nun…” Paryanna said with a deadpan expression.

And both Holmes men laughed, and a rather confused and slightly disturbed mother shook her head and smiled, tousling her astonishing little girl's hair, and then they said goodbye to each other, and Sherlock pressed his hand and left him to go back to Baker Street, and Mycroft returned into his office with a light sunburn on his forehead and the knowledge that his life would never be the same again and that this was absolutely fine with him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A truly happy ending for the boys!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's end this story, shall we? Thanks to everybody who commented and/or gave kudos! This was a rather strange fic that took a long time to get things right between them. 
> 
> I will take a break from posting now as I will see if I can write more on "There Is Nothing I Wouldn't Do For You" and the next few days won't give me much time to write. But I hope to be back soon. Until then, have a great time and bless you, my faithful readers :)

“Oh, that looks… nice.”

Mycroft smiled a tad shyly. “I thought… we could eat something first and…” Was it too much? This perfectly laid-out table? With candles and crystal glasses and a real dinner with meat and potato wedges?

Sherlock raised his hand. “It looks gorgeous. Just… just like you…”

Mycroft had dared welcome him in a suit. A rather casual one, light-grey, with a purple tie (no waistcoat or sleeve garters; he didn’t want to push his luck). His outfit was perfectly matching Sherlock's purple shirt and black suit with crisp white shirt. The Holmes brothers looked rather dapper tonight, Mycroft thought. The night that would finally lead to… making love.

He watched his brother sit down with flushed cheeks and a smile on his wonderful lips and he knew Sherlock wasn't here to collect his last piece of data. He was here because he wanted to be with him and it meant the world to Mycroft.

 _'Mycroft's wife'_ , he had answered Little Paryanna when she had mockingly asked him what he wanted to be as a grown-up. Of course it had been a joke but Mycroft knew a kernel of truth when he saw or better heard one.

Sadly, Sherlock could never marry him. But in the end they were already brothers; they didn’t need another piece of paper that linked them to one another.

Was this presumptuous? Would Sherlock even want to be with him for good? He might want it now but who could say how he would feel about it when the novelty had worn off. But Mycroft knew better than most that there were no guarantees in life. No guarantee that your insane sister would be contained forever in the prison she had been in since she'd been a child. No guarantee that the Prime Minister you thought would be the best candidate for the sake of the nation didn’t turn out to be a total idiot. No guarantee that the brother you love so much and who finally loves you back will stay in your life as your lover forever. And even though it would shatter his heart, he had given himself a vow – if Sherlock decided he had enough of it, enough of _him_ , he would let him go and he would resent him for it no more than he had for getting his arm twisted by him or being tortured by scary creatures in his own house under his guidance.

He shook these thoughts off when he felt Sherlock's stare at him and hurried to provide them with red wine. “I'll get the food now, be right back.”

Sherlock simply nodded and Mycroft could feel he was following him with his eyes when he hastened out of the dining room. Damn… He had spoilt the mood before they even had a chance to take that final step…

*****

Sherlock helped Mycroft with their dinner when he came back with a huge tray full of bowls. He tried not to show it but he felt sad and discouraged by Mycroft's obvious doubt in him. But he deserved that, didn’t he? He had hurt and disappointed this man for all his fucking life and now he really wondered why Mycroft didn’t have trust in his feelings?

_His feelings…_

Mycroft raised his glass and smiled at him. “On this evening and…”

“I love you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stopped his hand mid-air and his mouth fell open. It would have looked very funny if it hadn't been so sad. “What?”

Sherlock huffed. “I love you. That's it.” He leaned back in his chair, his look dropped. “I was nasty to you all this fucking long time. When we started this here, I was just awful to you. I left at once when we were finished. I… didn’t cuddle with you or anything. And even when I had already realised that this… meant a lot to me, I still didn’t really change my behaviour because I thought… you'd stop meeting me when we were through…”

“God, I thought exactly the same.”

“Of course you did, and in the beginning I'd have never thought there could be more to this. Because… I'm me and you are you and…” Sherlock puffed. “You had every right to think that because all I ever did was using you and insulting you and hurting you and turning my back on you… But I had no right to think about you that way! Yeah, I knew you always mocked about sentiment and so I thought I couldn’t… have more from you. But I should have known that better long before. You've always loved me. You've always supported me. And you'd never have agreed to my insane plan if you hadn't loved me as… more than a brother.”

Mycroft was staring at him with wide eyes. “Yes, I mean… No, Sherlock. You've never been as bad as you put it. You're just… you. And I love you. Just like you are. Even though I do have to admit that I love this new version of you a tad more than the previous ones…”

Sherlock burst out laughing. “Always the bloody diplomate!”

Mycroft grinned. “Guilty as charged. We… just said it both. I… Wow…”

“Yes… Wow… Mycroft. I don't want this to end. I know you think I'm volatile and change my mind all the time but when you think about it – that's not quite true. I've been working with Lestrade for ten years; okay, I still can't remember his first name but… And I've been friends with Mrs Hudson and John and Molly for a long time, too. I can be loyal if people deserve it! And yes, I know you think John doesn't, and perhaps you're right even though I did understand him when it happened. Time will tell how things develop between us. But what I want to say is – when I take to someone, I really do. And I've bloody _fallen_ for you. Your great body and your pretty eyes and your cock and… Your mind! Your heart! The heart you denied having, and what a stupid nonsense was that! Your heart is even bigger than your dick, and that says a lot!”

Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, Sherlock. I'm sorry. It was just so hard to believe that someone as beautiful as you should choose me.”

“Yeah, right, _Quasimodo_! We're brothers, for God's sake! And if _I'm_ good-looking, you must be too, naturally!”

“If you say so…”

“I don't care if your hair falls out. I don't care if you gain a few pounds again, even though I doubt that you will, considering the sex life we're going to have… I love you, Mycroft, just as you love me. With the flaws and the treats. And I'm not going anywhere! And I won't let you go either!” He glowered at him, and Mycroft shook his head in awe.

And then he raised his glass again. “On us. The Holmes boys. United in lasting love and precious perversion!”

Sherlock grinned. “Hear, hear!”

They clinked glasses and then Sherlock stood up and bent over the table to kiss this gorgeous man who was his, almost setting his shirt on fire at a candle, and then they started to eat their not-quite-hot anymore dinner and Sherlock enjoyed it nonetheless (Mycroft had cooked for him!) and he couldn’t wait for the dessert.

*****

“Wait, Sherlock.”

“Huh?” Sherlock looked up to him with wide eyes, silently asking if he had changed his mind.

Mycroft hurried to shake his head. “No, I just… Can we practice for Christmas? Can I unwrap you?” They were standing next to his bed, the room full of candles he had quickly lit when Sherlock had hastened into the bathroom after dinner. Hopefully neither of them would catch fire; it had been close enough during dinner… But he might be soppy and silly – he loved candlelight.

And then Sherlock beamed at him in a way that made his heart come to a halt. “Oh of course. But don't startle – I didn’t bother with underwear…”

Mycroft chuckled. “Thanks for the warning. I might get a heart attack when I get attacked by your erection…” He closed the distance between them and proceeded to open the top button of Sherlock's shirt, aware of his brother's gaze at him. But then he changed his mind and laid the hand on his cheek instead.

Their eyes met and then they both moved forward until their mouths met in a soft, chaste kiss.

Which remained chaste for about five seconds until they started to finally _really_ kiss.

Mycroft felt dizzy with want and amazement, melting into the kiss, tasting of wine and food and Sherlock, his hands now as impatiently tearing at Sherlock's clothes as Sherlock's were fumbling with his. They stripped each other off without any finesse, both eager to finally do it right, to express their feelings with every touch of hands on skin, with every meeting of their tongues, with getting as close as two men could get.

A moment later a naked Sherlock threw himself onto his bed, landing on his back, and Mycroft was all over him in an instant, nibbling, kissing, licking and touching every inch of skin he could get to.

This wasn't experimentation anymore. This was what Mycroft had been dreaming about for nearly twenty years – passion, devotion, and love.

Still he did memorise everything: the taste, the texture, the scent, every reaction his brother was giving, of course he did! Closing his lips around Sherlock's left nipple led to Sherlock shivering all over and pulling his hair quite painfully. Licking his navel made him giggle and pant. Biting into his neck – not hard enough to leave a bruise, for reasons – made Sherlock gasp and tremble. And every squeezing of his hard dick made him moan to the ceiling.

Then he was being rolled over and Sherlock took over, exploring his body with his mouth and hands, nuzzling his face into his hairy chest. And this time Mycroft wasn't feeling self-conscious about his looks or his little remaining fat rolls, finally understanding that this didn’t matter. Sherlock didn’t find him repulsive or embarrassing – Sherlock loved his body, obviously. He wouldn’t question it anymore. He would just enjoy his brother's lust and desire and, more than anything else, his emotions for him.

When Sherlock was busy licking the very sensitive spot beneath his ear, Mycroft put his forefinger into his mouth to wet it and then he reached down to circle Sherlock's hole.

Sherlock moaned against his skin. “Yes, I want that. I want you in me now,” he rumbled in his seductive deep voice, his hand wrapped firmly around Mycroft's cock, and there was no doubt he was talking about more than Mycroft's fingers.

Mycroft didn’t ask him which position he preferred as he had planned to, his instincts taking over. He gently pushed Sherlock onto the mattress next to him, grabbed the lube and urged Sherlock to get hold of his thighs, holding them up so he could access him. It was such a vulnerable and pretty obscene position but one look at Sherlock's face told him that his brother understood and welcomed the most intimate position they could choose to finally get as close as possible to each other.

*****

This was it. The final step, the breaking of the taboo, the real incest. And apart from this – it was the most exciting thing and the most breath-taking thing Mycroft had ever done, sinking into his brother's squishy tightness inch by inch while his lips were locked with Sherlock's, while they were breathing and panting into each other's mouths, while Sherlock's hands were cramping into his shoulders and his legs were around his waist.

“You all right?” he asked between kisses. He was quite Sherlock was, in fact very much all right but he didn’t want his brother's first real sex, that he would recall for the rest of his life, to be a painful and repulsive memory. Not that he really thought it was but one could never be too sure that baby brother was doing fine.

“I'm great, go on. God, you feel so good.”

Mycroft had never bottomed for anyone. His few encounters many years ago had consisted of being sucked off and taking men doggy style or even standing against a wall when he had been in a real hurry. Unthinkable to be like this with Sherlock. Anyway – he was aware that not every man reacted to being topped exceptionally well. Not every man's prostate responded to being touched in a positive way. Some men hated that.

Sherlock was obviously, thankfully, none of them. He was staring at him with wide eyes or kept them firmly closed while Mycroft was thrusting into him, his hard cock poking into Mycroft's stomach at every thrust. Mycroft was careful of course but he knew this intrusive act had to cause the bottom, even an experienced one, some kind of discomfort, and Sherlock was a complete virgin in this matter. He was getting aroused tremendously but he also had to feel some pain. Mycroft only hoped that the joy was stronger than the hurt…

“I love that, don't worry, do it harder,” Sherlock stammered and then bit into his chin, and Mycroft obliged and, resting on his knees, he pushed into him harder and faster and then he yowled when Sherlock bit into his neck while he was pulsing heftily between their bodies, and somehow the pain of Sherlock's sharp teeth in his tender skin was the final trigger for his own orgasm and he spilled into Sherlock, feeling as if he was in cramps _down there_ , and with his last strength he pulled out and let himself slump into the sheets next to his brother, whose long fingers were gliding through the mess of his stomach.

“God, this was so good,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes closed.

“A memorable first time, hm?”

“Very.” Sherlock turned around and looked at him. “Oh. Ouch! Sorry!”

Mycroft smiled. “No worries. It will remind me of this this night for a week or two…” And it wouldn’t be visible above his collar and even if a small part of it was – he was allowed a sex life after all… And he didn’t have friends who could ask intrusive questions. He should better not meet Paryanna though; he could imagine her knowing grin all too well…

Sherlock grinned. “Because otherwise you'd have forgotten about it as soon as I leave the house?”

Mycroft reached out and touched his cheek. “I'll never forget it. Are you all right?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Did you get the impression that I wasn't?”

“No but… You know… This was something different than… what we did before. This was…”

“Yeah, I get it. Of course it was different. It was awesome. You've made me your slut now and I'm proud of finding my true calling.”

Mycroft laughed out loud. “Oh brother. Your way of putting things!”

“It's one of my many treats.”

“It surely is…”

Sherlock bent forward and kissed his lips. “I want to fuck you too. Tonight…”

Mycroft swallowed. “All right. But I will still see you afterwards?”

“Mycroft!”

“Sorry!”

“I won't go anywhere! I mean of course I'll have to go home and yes, of course we must pretend we're not quite that fond of each other towards everyone but this is not a _mood_ , Mycroft. It's not just _sex_. That's how it started for me, okay, but now it's through the roof. I'm in love with you, brother, get used to it.”

“I'll never get used to that…”

Sherlock grinned and slapped his shoulder. “You sappy old romantic.”

“Guilty as charged.”

Sherlock kissed him on the cheek and then he rolled out of his bed. “I need a shower and then we'll rest a bit and then we reverse roles. Or… do you not want that? I mean, you're older and have the bigger dick…”

“Sherlock. We're the Holmes brothers. We don't think in such clichés.”

“Right! Care to join me in the shower?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

*****

Mycroft sank back onto the bed, his hair still wet, smelling from body wash and feeling both refreshed and beautifully exhausted after a very hot, very kiss-heavy shower and of course the steamy sex they'd had before. They had washed each other and it had been a strangely exciting thing to do. Sherlock, wet like an otter, had somehow managed to wiggle around his body, his mouth and body and hands seemingly everywhere, and Mycroft had been half-hard when he had finally escaped. One day they would make love in the generous shower cubicle but for his first time he wanted the comfortableness of his bed.

Sherlock was all over him as soon as he had stuffed a pillow behind his head. His black curls were damp and unruly; he had dried them off in his usual impatient way. He had forgotten to dry a part of his shoulder, and Mycroft would have licked off the drops of water that were glistening on it if he hadn't been rather unable or better unwilling to move again.

But he wasn’t too lazy to return Sherlock's kisses with vigour, rubbing over the wet skin instead, embracing his stunning little brother with arms and legs, and when Sherlock's hand reached down to touch his entrance, he felt his body tingle with want.

Sherlock didn’t miss it and smiled at him from above. “Can I take you from behind? Like when I rubbed myself between your thighs?”

“Whatever you want, little brother.” He was aware that this would perhaps be a rather painful experience. It was his first time bottoming and Sherlock's first time topping after all, and the position would probably not make that much difference.

But Sherlock, deducing his thoughts, shook his head. “I'm not going to hurt you. If it hurts, we'll stop at once. I… never want to hurt you again…”

So many memories raised their ugly heads at this sentence. Sherlock had hurt him many times, often enough deliberately and sometimes without even realising it.

Mycroft shook his head. “That's another life, Sherlock. We can't forget it but we'll have to make our peace with the past, you and me. I made enough mistakes in dealing with you, too.”

“You've never hurt me. Not physically and not really in any other way…”

 _Not really…_ Mycroft knew he had. He had messed things up between them himself often enough. They did have to leave this all behind to develop a relationship built on trust and affection, not falling back into old habits and resentments. It wouldn’t be easy.

“It's easier said than done, brother mine,” Sherlock mumbled, deducing his thoughts once more.

“It is. But when has anything ever been easy for us? We'll grow with our challenges.”

Sherlock grinned. “Always the politician, huh?”

“Well, you chose me so there.”

“True. Well then – are you ready to be entered by Sherlock, the Pitiless Pirate?” The detective reached for the lube.

Mycroft laughed. “Oh dear… Yes, enter me, my dark knight of the seas.”

*****

It was the most astonishing experience in Mycroft Holmes' life. Enwrapped from behind, Sherlock's hot breath against his ear, he felt as if he was being invaded by a hot spear that was gliding into him with more ease than he had expected, setting this certain spot inside him on fire. He too was a man whose prostate responded mightily to being nudged obviously.

It felt incredible and scandalous and unbearable and fantastic.

Sherlock was talking to him, asking him if the pace was fine or if he should stop, but Mycroft found himself in the completely unknown situation of not being able to utter a single coherent word, so he just reached behind Sherlock and grabbed a plush arse cheek and pushed him against him.

Sherlock chuckled and understood  and answered the wordless plea to take him harder, to thrust into him deeper, and Mycroft felt like floating away. Nothing was allowed to feel that good. Well, in fact it wasn’t, at least not with Sherlock, but he couldn’t have cared less about laws and taboos and decency.

His hand found his cock, and it was hot and hard and heavy in his hand, and he stroked himself while Sherlock was pumping into him, and then he cried out and spilled all over the sheets, slumping in Sherlock's tight embrace.

Sherlock hadn't finished yet and he slowly went on fucking him and Mycroft, feeling oversensitive now, helped him more or less unconsciously by contracting his muscles around his precious pirate's prick and then he was flooded with hot fluid and Sherlock almost crushed him from behind while moaning in this sexy deep voice and Mycroft loved it and loved him and felt loved in a way he'd never even dared hope for.

But then Sherlock pulled back and turned him around and gasped. “Mycroft!”

“What's wrong?”

“You're crying!”

“Am I?” Amazed, Mycroft lifted his hand to his cheek and yes, it was wet. “Oh. Don't you worry, dear. I didn’t even realise it. It just happened because it felt so great. And because I'm so happy.”

Sherlock stared at him with an expression of disbelief, and Mycroft shrugged.

“Like you said – I'm a sappy old romantic. Or perhaps the Iceman has just literally melted when finally getting rigorously rogered by the powerful pirate?”

And Sherlock giggled and kissed him and Mycroft grinned against his lips, feeling silly and naughty and ridiculously happy, pulling his brother in, holding him, breathing in the scent of shampoo and sweat and Sherlock, and he knew there hadn't been a happier moment in his life; and the best about it was that there would be countless more moments like this and Mycroft knew he would love each and every one of them.

This would last and it would work as long as Sherlock wanted it to do, and now he finally didn’t doubt that Sherlock was as deadly serious about it as he was, and Mycroft would put all his energy into this forbidden, astonishing relationship because Sherlock had always been and would always be his one and only, his precious little brother, the man he had been desiring for nearly half his life, the only one he had ever truly wanted. He loved him dearly and deeply, and he would do all he could to make him happy again and again, because he very much adored and appreciated his man, his brother, his love, his Sherlock.

The End


End file.
